


Even a Worm Will Turn.

by carefulfleshgnawer



Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Animal Death, Arson, Bastardization arc but its an entire life, Burnout - Freeform, Cannibalism (sort of), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abuse, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demons, Elements of horror and surrealism, F/M, Family Fluff, Hospitalization, Immorality, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Saburouta-centric, Self-Harm, Sexual Themes, Suicidal Thoughts, demonic posession, emotional and physical abuse, mental manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulfleshgnawer/pseuds/carefulfleshgnawer
Summary: Even the smallest and weakest of creatures will retaliate if pushed too far....but it takesa lotto create a monster like Saburouta Toudou.
Relationships: Toudou Saburouta/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 11





	1. Intro: An overwhelming sense of helplessness.

**Author's Note:**

> READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
> 
> MIND THE TAGS! IF YOU THINK THAT ANY OF THE SUBJECTS MENTIONED MIGHT UNSETTLE OR UPSET YOU, PLEASE RECONSIDER IF YOU SHOULD READ THIS WORK AT ALL.
> 
> ALSO, PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS WORK IS INTENDED FOR AN ADULT AUDIENCE (THAT IS - RATED EXPLICIT).
> 
> Okay so here we go I've been writing this thing since the end of August - big whew. I've had a lot of fun and a lot of difficulty writing this. It is currently the longest thing I've ever written. I just have Toudou brainworms it is what it is.
> 
> This fic, as you might have gathered, discusses a lot of dark themes and I tried my best to address them respectfully... If you have any critique about this fic - please let me know, and I will try and improve it! ;3;
> 
> I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who has helped keep me motivated by listening to me going off about Toudou for the past few months and everyone who's hyped me up whenever I posted snippets... Really couldn't have done this without u guys i love u so much mwah mwah!!! ❤❤❤❤

Saburouta Toudou is a worthless loser. He's known this for a very long time. For as long as he can remember, to be precise.

 _Not that he's counting_ , but those first few pathetic memories are from kindergarten - him falling over and skinning his knees - and the other kids, god, the kids just _laughing_.

He doesn't remember how it looked that day, he doesn't remember how the other kids sounded; it's so old that it's just a memory of a memory - a faded, blurry thing… but it's still there.

And it _really_ sets the mood for the rest of the deplorable, pathetic sob story that is his life.

\--

Early childhood is a hazy thing interspersed with a few clear memories. Most of them are not too fun to recall (a good deal are of getting scolded for one thing or another). There are good times too, sure, but he’s never so sure about remembering those - some of them feel almost forbidden, almost impossible.

Saburouta is bad at school. He’s neither bright, nor sociable and has no friends. He’s easy to pick on, to shove into lockers or trip down the stairs. He’s gullible and spineless and meek and naive, keeps falling for mean jokes and pranks time and time again. He’s overly sensitive and cries over something at least once a day. 

The teachers - they’re concerned, but his father says that it’s better that his back stiffens now, that he’ll be a better adult because of it later. And so, they leave him to fend for himself, to deal with his own problems.

But… Saburouta doesn’t stiffen up. He stays small and meek and nervous to the point of resembling a wild animal. All throughout school and up to when he graduates middle school, Saburouta doesn’t have a single friend, doesn’t join a single extra-curricular club, doesn’t develop a single interest in anything except getting through it, day by agonizing day.

As a child and early teen, Saburouta simply _exists_ , and even then, he _fucks it up_.

\--

Saburouta's father wants him to be an exorcist. It is the only logical and possible path for him. Their family is famous for their skills, and he must follow the traditions and later pass them on. End Of Story.

Saburouta knows even before starting that he’ll be bad at it, that he’ll never be as good as father or his brothers. He just… doesn’t know how to bring this fear up. All throughout Raijin’s speech he tries to find the words and fails. By the end he’s a squirming, anxious mess. Saburouta knows how important this is for the family. What an honour it is to be a Toudou.

And yet… this does nothing to bring him comfort. It feels like a responsibility much too heavy for him to carry, much too scary to deal with.

But his fear of the exorcism academy is only half-found.

Unexpected as it is for someone… _like him_ , Saburouta loves the demons, loves the lessons. Though he is really bad at them and unable to tell the difference between a pentagram and a pentacle even if his life depends on it; he still enjoys the hearing and reading, the immersion into the study process. Saburouta spends every spare second nose-deep in a demonology book, or a seals and barriers book; his notebook is filled with chicken-scratch rushed notes, full to the brim and wearing down at the spine quickly.

But as much as Saburouta might love learning… everything else is abysmal. His classmates pretend he doesn't exist at best, and at worst make scathing jokes and remarks about him regardless of whether he can hear it or not. 

It’s a little like middle school part two in that aspect, but somehow _worse_. More than ever he feels alone and incapable. More than ever he feels vulnerable and unprepared for the struggle of daily life.

Saburouta hates going to the same school that Waro and Tsuguro absolved. His last name and appearance are much too easily recognised. So, he gets a lot of flak from teachers and faculty members because his older brothers were _such wonderful students,_ and, well, he _isn’t_. 

Every time he thinks that they’ve said all they could possibly come up with, they come up with some more. It’s all the little and the big things. It’s everything in how If he’s lucky, they ask to talk to him after class, if he’s less lucky, they ask for his father to come in for some talks. If he’s not lucky at all, he gets reprimanded in front of the whole class _and_ they call his father up.

But his problems don’t end with school. When Saburouta gets home, his family nags too. About how he’s not doing enough, how he’s dragging the family name through the mud. 

Getting test scores back is the absolute worst, because then dinner is a screaming, burning, overly loud and scary spectacle and the night is spent wallowing in the deepest depths of misery his sick little heart can reach. 

And no matter how many times father dresses him down, it never hurts any less. It’s never easier to take… if anything, it just keeps getting harder, because Saburouta’s getting fed up with himself too.

Life would be better if he didn’t exist. But sadly - he does. As another dinner after a bad grade reaches levels of loud that make him flinch, Saburouta makes himself as small as possible, hoping that if he shrinks down far enough, he’ll disappear from everyone's field of sight.

\--

In every person’s life, there are certain checkpoints. They can be big or small, but they ultimately help form the identity, the soul, the backbone of the personality.

The first time Saburouta kills something, it’s an unfortunate _accident_. 

There’s a small frog jumping across the road, and, upon noticing it, Saburouta’s scared that it will get hit by a car. So, naturally, his first idea is to carry it over. But... the tiny thing struggles and squirms in his grip and he- well- he squeezes too hard.

Saburouta doesn’t realise it’s dead at first. It’s just as cool, smooth and moist as when it was alive. He sets it down with all his gentleness and care on the other side of the asphalt. 

Realisation sets in slowly. He watches it and thinks, ‘ _it’ll jump soon, maybe it fell asleep while I carried it_.’ But then it doesn’t, and the time stretches on. With a growing worry, he nudges it, hoping to wake it up. The frog lies limply on its side. 

Saburouta stares down blankly, and it clicks. 

Then, he feels terrible. He’s a _murderer_! A bad person! He can’t do anything right! And even when he wants to help, he makes things worse!

Something in snaps like a string under too much tension; and a bitter feeling of acceptance fills him up. Of course, he killed it - he’s _Toudou Saburouta_. 

Were it anyone else bringing that frog across the road, they would do it _right_ and the frog would be alive, but he could _never_.

Saburouta buries the tiny thing in the soft sand of the roadside. It feels like childishly hiding a mistake. Like hiding the shards of a broken vase under the couch. Like this will come back to bite him later.

Saburouta swallows his guilt. Puts it away with the rest, deep in his skull. An ever-growing library of dark and gloomy thoughts, of things he should have done different and better.

And then he walks home.

\--

Classes have been hell lately. Not that they've ever been particularly good, but they seem somehow worse. Saburouta can't even put his finger on why - it’s just his luck, or it’s just _him_.

"...but it is often confused with henbane, the use of which can be potentially fatal. Who can explain how to tell the two apart? Toudou-kun?"

Saburouta winces, immediately feeling stressed. He sucks at botany, and he forgot to do the reading again even after making a reminder.

"I'm afraid I can't…" he tries to say, but his voice comes out too weak and quiet and wobbly.

"What was that? Please speak up, Toudou-kun," the teacher says, exasperated.

Saburouta feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says, a little louder. He clenches his fists in his lap. He hates this. It’s humiliating. “I said ‘I don't know’.”

Someone somewhere snickers, someone else whispers. Saburouta looks down at his tabletop with his shoddy notes and open textbook. His heart clenches tightly in his chest.

"What? You don't know? Oh, I'm disappointed, Toudou-kun. Your brother Tsuguro was so good at botany, very active in class - you should try to be more like him!" the teacher says. Saburouta winces again, his fists tightening. Every damn day, _every damn time_. 

"Now, does anyone know the answer? - Yes, Yumiko-chan?-"

Saburouta feels something. He's not sure it's an emotion - he's never felt one so strong. It's like his whole body is on fire. He's so embarrassed. He's so _angry_.

He's been angry for a while now, he realises detachedly. Angry and _frustrated_. It's all been festering inside him and he- he just doesn’t know what to do with it. Saburouta stares blankly at his notebook for the rest of class. Doesn’t hear a single thing the teacher says. Waits desperately for the bell to ring so he can get out of here and try to calm down.

A classmate bumps into him _hard_ as he's leaving the classroom. The impact makes him drop his books. Saburouta looks at them for a second as if not really sure they’ve fallen, before slowly crouching to pick them up.

‘Keep it together,’ he thinks as something in his throat tightens, ‘keep it together, please. Don’t get in trouble again.’

"Oh, I'm s-so s-s-sorry! I'm too bl-blind and s-s-stupid to see where I'm going!" the boy that had bumped him says in a crude parody of Saburouta's voice. 

Saburouta looks up at him with a glare. (It’s probably more of an upset pout.)

The boy laughs. "Ohh, he's angry!" he jeers, “I’m sooo~ scared!” His friends snicker. "Well then? You gonna do something about it, dumb shit, or just stare stupidly?"

He can't do anything, he _can't_. The boy is bigger and stronger and has friends. Saburouta is outmatched and outnumbered. He should just keep his head down and take it. Shouldn’t react. Shouldn’t egg them on.

He turns his attention back to the books, biting the inside of his cheek to ground himself. His cheeks are flaming again, the frustration palpable and painful in his chest. 

He's going to get them and bolt. He's going to get them and bolt as _fast as he can_.

But fate has a different plan - the boy kicks Saburouta's crouching form, sends him sprawling. The books clatter on to the floor again in a series of dull thuds.

Saburouta raises himself on his hands and knees. His glasses are askew. He doesn't care. All he hears is rushing in his ears. All he feels is white hot rage that’s-

He's not sure what happens next. 

The next thing he knows is he’s being held back by two of the boy's friends as a third lands his fist in Saburouta's stomach, causing him to call out in pain. Saburouta is scared, but-

 _The_ boy is standing a ways off, blood pouring off his face, looking pale and surprised and scared. And that’s _good_ , but Saburouta is still- what the hell happened? -, held down and the boy draws his fist back again-

Another punch; it knocks the air out of him in a loud wheeze. Saburouta's limbs jerk against the grip they're held in. He wants to break free. Wants to break all their bones and thrash their bodies, spill their blood all over the floors- he wants to run away and hide and cry because this is so unfair, he wants-

They don't notice the classroom door opening.

"Just what is going on here!?" the botany teacher asks, loud and angry.

The boys release Saburouta as if burned, he stands doubled over. His glasses are about to fall off his face. He watches the blurry outlines of the other boy's feet as they start making excuses to the teacher.

Ah. All he wants is to _hurt them_.

A drop of blood slides down his nose- when did that happen? -, lands with a plip he can't hear over all these voices. God, can they just _shut up_? Can they just _leave him alone_?

"Toudou-kun!" the teacher says, suddenly close and touching his shoulder. He jerks back from it immediately, glares at her.

"Come, Toudou-kun. We're going to the infirmary and then we're going to the principal's office!” she then addresses the boys at large,” All of your parents will be outraged at this behaviour!"

She drags him and the boy - the instigator - along by the wrist, as the rest follow.

Saburouta goes meekly with her, the fight gone out of him suddenly. It's really no use trying to fight back, explain that it _wasn't him_ that started it. He’s tried it many times and it never works.

The teachers all firmly believe that both sides are _always_ equally guilty, which just somehow doesn’t seem fair to Saburouta, because he keeps ending up in trouble despite any and all efforts to avoid it. He feels frustrated tears at the corner of his eyes, tries to blink them away. Tears are _useless_ here. Why does his body still bother?

He's going to get yelled at for this at home. Well, it's nothing new. He gets yelled at more often than not anyway.

Saburouta flexes his wrist, the knuckles of it feel sore and are reddened. He wishes he could recall what it felt like to crash his fist into that boy's face. As it is, he has trouble believing that he’s done it at all.

Why do these things keep happening to him? What has he done to earn it? Is it just his fate to suffer through endless slights and wrongs and pains? It has to be divine retribution for _something_.

\--

Saburouta sits in his room on pins and needles the two hours after he gets home and before his brothers get back. The school called his father, he knows, he was there when they did it. And if father knows, then so does everyone else. 

Saburouta feels his breath hitch again. That stupid, helpless feeling fills him to the brim. Like he’s just a puppet on a string. Like every bad thing and every harsh word is a wave in a sea that he’s wading and has no protection against. He wants to cry, but crying is useless. He wants to run, but he could never run far enough to escape reality. All he can do is wait and steel himself for the inevitable.

And then Waro hits him for getting into trouble as soon as he gets home from his shift at The Keep. An open-handed strike over the back of Saburouta's head that echoes throughout his body in a nauseating wave.

“What the fuck did you do?!” he demands, “Dad is furious! A fight? Really? Are you planning on becoming a delinquent now? Are you completely out of your mind?”

Saburouta shrinks down. That’s not it. That’s not it at all. He wants- he wants to be good; he wants to pass his classes, he wants to stay away from trouble, he-

He can’t speak around the horrible knot in his throat. Mute, he raises his hands to his face. He hates himself so much.

“Stop that! Explain yourself, now!” Waro shouts, grabbing Saburouta by the collar.

Saburouta forces the words through, but they come out choked and warbled, “I’m sorry, Waro. I didn’t mean to- I was just- I” his voice breaks off, he swallows painfully, “I didn’t w-want to fight, b-but the-” he feels the first tears run down his face.

(Pathetic.) 

“Ugh,” Waro groans, shoving Saburouta away, ”God, stop that bawling, Saburouta!” Waro yells, “Man up, you’re not a little kid anymore. You can’t just cry about every little thing. Stop making excuses and own up.” He gestures widely, “I mean, you’re the one always getting into trouble and failing classes, but you turn around and cry like I’m the bad one! And dad! Ugh, it’s so frustrating! Why can’t you just behave? Is it so hard?”

Saburouta doesn’t dare look up from the floor. He draws himself up, curls smaller. It’s instinctual. If he can just become small enough, then nothing can hurt him. Except things still do. Waro’s words, for instance. They cut right into his soul. 

It is all his fault, isn’t it? If everyone else can do it and he can’t, then the problem is him, right? He just needs to… try harder. He needs to be better and then it will all be easier.

Saburouta wipes his eyes furiously, but the tears don’t seem to stop. He’s… he’s been trying. He’s been trying his best, but… it’s just not enough. What more can he do?

When Waro’s done yelling at him, dad just happens to get home - and that’s the start of _round two_. He goes on and on through dinner about how Saburouta - how he’s careless, he’s stupid, he’s a menace, they should’ve given him away as a baby, he’s never done anything good for the family-

Saburouta tries his best to tune it out, to keep his face neutral and fails. Cries quietly with his head hung low. He doesn’t touch his food - he couldn’t stomach it. 

After dinner he crawls up back to his room with his tail between his legs, sags against the door with a shaky breath. He’s absolutely exhausted and feels terrible. It’s a school night. He has homework. Saburouta resigns to his fate and gets to it after washing his face with some cold water.

But he's still _burning_ inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toudou's family seems absolutely horrible from the brief scenes we've seen of them in the manga and they are definitely the biggest driving factor for him turning out the way that he did. 😔😔😔
> 
> So, uhhh, that's the start of it...!! I have everything typed up and I'll be posting it... sometime soon tho idk about a set schedule haha. Maybe I'll say fuck it and upload the whole thing like I did with ad terram... who knows...
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Aria: Working beyond the limits of the human body and falling like Icarus, repeatedly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saburouta receives his first meister after a good deal of hardship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this chapter contains forced hospitalization and a character being suicidal.
> 
> This one was really hard to write and I think that this chapter, along with chapter 6, are probably the darkest ones. 
> 
> I don't really know how hospitals work, let alone hospitals in Japan, so... there are a lot of liberties taken there. I just went with whatever was more convenient for me as an author.

Saburouta makes a decision and commits to it.

He dedicates _all_ of his time to studying, reading and practicing. Regularly, his vision swims from the endless texts of both his study materials and the dictionaries he uses to translate the non-Japanese books. His desk is overflowing with hundreds of flash cards and notes written down on loose paper. Though he tries to keep track of it all, he doesn’t always succeed.

His mind, he feels, is a horse trudging along with the last of its strength. In his head, Saburouta chants a mantra of ‘just a little more, just another month, another week of this, just another day and then I can rest-’

(But he never can. He’s caught in a perpetual state of catching up, of doing things last minute only to find that there’s new homework, new assignments, new tests to study for- and how does everyone else do it? How do they do _this_?)

The frantic mess doesn’t end with his desk - the floor of his room is covered in chalk dust from where he’s been practicing seals... Dad always gets angry (more so than usual) if he messes up any of those; so Saburouta’s been focusing on them the hardest. Just hoping that it’s enough, eventually. The symbols… they make no sense to him, but if he draws them enough times, then he’ll get it, won’t he? He _has to_.

And Saburouta’s feverish studying pays off! His grades improve; and with them the attitude of his teachers and family. Why, the botany teacher - she even praises him in class once! The praise feels like a drug; the slightest bit of despair that’s always clung onto him abates.

He can… _almost_ breathe. He _almost_ feels better about himself.

_Almost_.

It takes so much to keep it all up. Sleepless nights and skipped meals. Passing up going outside. Now, he’s always been a shut-in, but this… this is hard. And there’s still a yawning pit inside him. A hole that nothing in the world could ever fill. Saburouta ignores it, or tries to.

(It’s certainly not an _easy_ thing to ignore.)

And then there’s the anxiety that follows him everywhere. The constant fear of messing up. The feeling that if he relaxes for real, even for a second, it will all come crashing down. And then he’ll be at the bottom of the class again, the biggest disappointment again, the _bad son_ again-

Saburouta exhales shakily. The words in front of him are blurring together as frustrated tears gather in his eyes for the second time today. It’s just not _clicking_ , and he doesn’t _understand_ -!

He wants to throw the book. He wants to rip it up. Panic wraps red-hot claws around his thrumming, racing heart. Despair fills his thoughts like an age-old friend. He pulls his glasses off and wipes uselessly at his eyes. This- this is all going to be on tomorrow’s test and he- he just doesn’t know what to _do_ -!

He needs to know this by heart, needs to be able to recite it word for word on command, he needs to understand, fuck, if he can just understand it all a little bit-

Saburouta chokes on a sob. His limbs feel so numb. His head feels like it’s full of static and racing. He holds his face in his hands as another wave of desperation goes through him, head to toes. His heart squeezes tightly.

He needs to be good, he needs to pass and get a good grade, fuck- he… he needs _not fuck up anymore_.

\--

It’s a deadly pace he’s picked for himself. Saburouta cannot say for sure for how long he will last.

His peers are… resting, socializing, all that other stuff. He hears them talk about malls and the latest comics and video games, about fashion and music and going to cafes together and making plans for karaoke on the weekends. A tiny, bitter part of his sick heart feels nauseous every time he hears them. A tinier, more fractured part feels helplessly jealous.

Saburouta doesn’t have the time for any of that. He’s over drinking coffee and skipping sleep just to get by because there just aren’t enough hours in a day for everything. There are permanent dark circles under his eyes. He keeps getting palpitations and bouts of panic so strong they paralyze him. His mind will sometimes... freeze up and then won’t unfreeze until hours later, and he loses precious study time, and the worry and the fear just keep growing and _growing_.

He’s stuck in an excruciating cycle. He can’t keep this up forever.

Saburouta lives racing with the clock, and that has never ended well for anyone. And knowing his luck… he definitely won’t be an exception. A bright example, more likely.

But he’s so close now - in his last year of the Exorcist academy, and the qualification exam is coming up. If he can just last until then... If he can just stretch himself for that last bit, then he’ll be fine.

Everything will get better once he's an _exorcist_.

\--

The first time Saburouta seriously considers killing himself is the day after failing the Aria qualification exam.

During it… he’d gotten too anxious, too unsure. He’d started second-guessing himself too much and had worked himself into a panic in the middle of the whole thing and… well, he’s fucked it up. And everyone had seen it; and then there was the way how the professor had broken the news to him.

_Gently_ , with _pity_.

Saburouta had found that he couldn’t keep it in - he’d started to cry - shameful, ugly and loud. He’s had a lot of public embarrassments; he’s had a lot of disappointments. But they’ve never felt so bad before. They’ve never felt like a fatal wound, like _it’s all over_.

Saburouta does not remember coming home. But he does remember locking himself in his room when he got here and spending the entire evening in what can only be described as a fugue state.

To be fair, today hasn’t been much better up to now. He’s still crying; he thinks he hasn’t stopped. Perhaps he deserves this. To fail, to hurt, to suffer. Holed up in his room like the pathetic little loser that he is. He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s lunch, hasn’t gotten out of bed since he got back home yesterday. Honestly? He doesn't deserve food. Doesn't deserve the space he takes up. Doesn't deserve anything even remotely good. He should just stay here and die and rot. It would be for the best.

His family would be better off without him; they should just put him out on the street, or better yet - out of his misery… And now there’s _a thought_.

Saburouta blinks, shifting onto his side on the bed, stares bleakly at the door. He _could_ do it. There is nothing stopping him, and honestly? - no one who would _want_ to.

He knows both where the guns and the other weapons are kept. He knows where all the cleaning chemicals are. There’s a lot of options. He could just… go and get them. Get it _over with_.

The thought runs in a loop in his head. His mind fills with image after image of death. He can envision so many ways to die; he deserves every single one of them.

But… his limbs, they won’t move. He’s too tired to move. Too tired to get out of bed and walk to the study and open the safe and get something nice and sharp and-

It takes all his strength just to _blink_ and _breathe_. Saburouta exhales, feeling the last bits of strength fade out from his body. He turns his face into the sheets. He doesn’t want to do anything right now.

He… he can do it tomorrow, when he's had some sleep and has some more energy. Right now, he just wants to sink back into a, hopefully, dreamless and deep slumber.

\--

Saburouta doesn’t know what really happens next. There’s a period of blankness here later. A hole in his memory - a scary and looming empty space. Days he’ll never get back, never live through.

He knows that his father drags him out of his room eventually, an undetermined number of days after the exam. Raijin breaks the door in, maybe he’s screaming, maybe he’s angry, maybe he isn’t, who knows? He drags Saburouta’s limp body like a corpse through the halls - Saburouta remembers this because sliding down the stairs had hurt.

Things get a little clearer in the car with the windows open. Cold air whips against Saburouta’s face as he comes to as if from a dream. His father at the wheel of the car up front - he's yelling at Saburouta, even now, but it's hard to make out what he's saying. The words still blur together.

The world is a little muffled and fuzzy and disorienting right now. He hasn't drunk or eaten or-

how long has it been again?

And then… they put him in a fucking _hospital_.

He doesn’t realize it at first, everything’s still blurry, but as his father drags him through the corridors and Saburouta recognizes the sharp smell of disinfectant and the sterile architecture, the people in scrubs talking and crowding and-

He feels a good deal of distress. Tries jerking away- explaining that - no! He’s fine, he doesn’t need help, he doesn’t know why he’s been taken here, that he should just leave- but they won’t let him. And he’s too weak to break free from the hands gripping him, probably too weak to get far by himself. He wants to, needs to leave. It’s so hard to breathe.

“There’s been a mistake-” he croaks as a male nurse sets him to sit down in a chair by one of the beds in the room, “I- I shouldn’t be in a h-hospital! I’m fine, I swear!”

The nurse eyes him with pity, “Toudou-san, you are unwell. We’ll get you cleaned up and you’ll feel better, alright?”

“N-no, I,” Saburouta says, feeling his throat closing up. What’s happening to him? Is this really his life? “I’m f-fine, I feel great. Please, let me go.” He fists his hands in the fabric of his pants. He’s so _scared_.

“The doctor will come see you as soon as he’s done talking to your family, alright?”

Saburouta can hear their voices through the open door of the hospital room but can’t make out the words. Father sounds angry. Still. (Always.)

“-I’ll stay with you for now, alright?”

Saburouta turns his gaze away from the door, looks at the nurse, who bears a polite and kind, perhaps even soothing expression. He swallows and nods. He doesn’t really have much of a choice, does he?

A few minutes later, the doctor walks in, “Nice to meet you, Toudou-san, I’m doctor Kyuryuu. You’ll be staying with us for a while, alright? Now, I understand from your father that you’d locked yourself in your room for a week? And you’ve been... ignoring their attempts to talk to you? Tell me, have you eaten or drunk anything at all in the past few days?”

“I...” Saburouta doesn’t know what to say that would make them let him go. He’s quickly growing tired, fuzzy around the edges again. “I don’t know...”

“That’s alright, Toudou-san,” the doctor says and signals something at the nurse, “We’ll draw some blood tests and then get you cleaned up, alright?”

Saburouta nods mutely. His head is starting to hurt. He doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to sleep.

But that doesn’t come so easily.

After taking the blood for analysis, the nurse takes him a wash room. Saburouta finds himself too weak and uncaring to do the washing himself, though the stream of warm water feels good over his skin. The nurse efficiently scrubs away all the sweat and grime and- everything else that’s built up over a week - has it _really_ been a week? - of barely moving.

Saburouta isn’t sure he feels like a person right now. He feels lost in some liminal space, just marginally present.

“Better?” the nurse asks as he straightens out Saburouta’s standard issue hospital clothes.

“A little cold...” Saburouta mumbles.

“Yeah, I thought you might be,” the nurse says, “here’s a robe.” It’s a simple, beige robe, soft enough against the skin, and warm.

When they get back to the hospital room, there’s two other patients in the beds. Saburouta gets the bed on the right, closer to the door; and the fourth bed sits empty.

“I’ll be right back,” the nurse says before stepping out.

Saburouta sits on the edge of the cot and finds himself in dissonance. He’s… in a hospital. And he doesn’t know when he’ll get out. And they- they want to _help him_. His stomach churns at the thought, a feeling of nausea settles over him. No. No! He wants… he needs out…

He tries to get up, but finds himself too weak to walk without support, slides to the floor somewhat gracelessly. The distress grows, and Saburouta finds himself getting frantic again. Why did father bring him here? Fuck!

When the nurse comes back, Saburouta lashes out, struggles. Pleads to be let out. It’s a rather futile effort.

“Come on, Toudou-san, we’re trying to help,” the nurse says as he wrestles Saburouta back unto the cot. “Please, let us help. I’ll give you some medicine, it’ll help you calm down, alright?”

Eventually the nurse calls an orderly in to help restrain Saburouta, fearing that he might hurt himself. They manage to start a line and then they - give him something. Something that makes him all woozy and pliable.

“-eems that we might have to be a bit firmer with him, Kyuryuu-san,” he hears the nurse through the haze.

“That’s too bad,” the doctor from before says, “We’ll have to see if he’ll eat by himself. If not, we’ll get an NG tube. For now, just do the infusions.”

When the medical haze wears off a few hours later, Saburouta refuses to eat despite the nurse’s best coaxing, not even at the promise of removing the bonds. There’s a moment of respite when the nurse leaves. Saburouta exhales shakily with his eyes closed. He wants out. He wants away. He wants to go back to his bed and lie there and _die_.

But the moment is short lived - the nurse comes back with another person in scrubs. They put a tube down his nose.

“You’re very weak right now, Toudou-san,” the new person says, as they hang some liquid baggy on the i/v stand, “You need energy if you want to get better, and to get it you need food. I know this is unpleasant, but if you won’t eat, then we have no choice but to feed you like this.” They connect the bag to the end of the tube.

Saburouta considers thrashing to dislodge the tube or the line or- or anything, at this point.

Perhaps this newcomer senses the thought, or perhaps they just say this to everyone- “Please, do not fight us. We are not the enemy. I know it must be hard for you right now, even if I don’t know what happened. We’ll do our best to help you, alright? And if you work with us, you’ll be okay.”

Though he hadn’t moved, Saburouta stills, clenching his jaw. The words catch on something jagged and bleeding within his chest. He feels tears at the corners of his eyes. How _embarrassing_.

“You want to get better, don’t you?” they ask.

Saburouta doesn’t know. He turns his head away, mute.

“That’s fine, take your time,” they say, “Alright, I’ll go now, I have some other stuff to take care of, you have it from here, nurse Adachi.”

That’s all for a while. The nurse checks in on him periodically, but other than that Saburouta is left to his own devices. He spends the time staring blankly up at the ceiling. Ignores his new roommates when they try to talk to him. Time crawls at an agonizing pace. He feels like shit.

Sometime in the evening, a different nurse comes by.

"Hello, Toudou-san," she says, voice soft and kind and he wants her to _not do that_. He shifts as far away from her on the bed as he can.

"I heard that you were quite upset when you were admitted, sorry to hear that. Doctor Kyuryuu sent me - I'm just going to give you something to help you sleep, alright?"

"Do I need it?" Saburouta asks, voice scratchy from disuse, "I’m fine, really. I wasn’t upset at all.” He’s not sure why he’s lying to her. He can’t seem to stop. ”Why, I wasn’t even supposed to be stationed, there was a misunderstanding. I’ve been waiting for someone to uncuff me and let me go."

Her expression turns wry, "I'm afraid I can't do that," she says, pulling on some gloves and unhooking the drip from his catheter. He considers jerking his hand away, maybe it would rip out and he'd bleed to death. But probably not.

"Please, don't keep me alive," Saburouta says, voice smaller than before. She eyes him, face full of pity and sympathy, takes a syringe and lets the excess air out. "I don't deserve to live," Saburouta whispers as she takes the needle off and connects the barrel, squeezes the plunger.

"Everyone deserves to live, Toudou-san," she says. Reconnects his drip when she's done.

"Not me," Saburouta says, barely above a breath. He can feel whatever she gave him kick in slowly, a soft fog settling over him. It feels peaceful.

"We'll help you," she says, adjusting the bed covers he'd managed to wiggle off while straining against the bindings, "Get some rest now."

Saburouta falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

\--

Saburouta stays in the hospital for two months.

The first two weeks, they supervise everything he does, everywhere he goes.

They give him medicine and have him take it while they watch. They wash and feed him when he refuses to do it himself. They’re kind and polite and _unrelenting_. Saburouta… gets better, despite himself.

He stops fighting back at some point. He doesn't have the strength for it. There's nothing that he can do to himself that they can't _undo_.

"Eating now?" one of the doctors asks as he makes the rounds.

Saburouta nods mutely, lifting another spoonful of porridge to his mouth. He's not enjoying it. Eating is purely mechanical. It's either this or the nose tube, and this is a lot more pleasant.

"Good," the doctor says, and then he says something to the nurse and goes on to the next patient.

They start individual therapy for him the next day. The doctor’s office is kind of scary even if it’s not supposed to be - the pictures and the baubles and the cosy atmosphere do nothing to ease Saburouta’s nerves. He doesn't really want to speak, doesn’t even want to look the psychiatrist lady in the eye; he just nods and shakes his head when she asks yes and no questions, and says as little as possible when he can't.

They did get some history when Saburouta's family admitted him, and now they base their questions around that. Saburouta _hates_ it.

"-I know that you're upset about failing your exams, Toudou-san," the doctor says, "but that does not mean that you're a lost cause, or that you should give up. You can study and take them again. Not doing it on the first try is nothing to be ashamed of."

Saburouta curls over himself, hands gripping his hair with force. His heart is aching at the words, but… She’s simplifying it all, he thinks. He didn’t just fail. He did his best, he worked for it day and night without rest, and still failed. There’s a clear distinction to make there. He doesn’t know how to word that; he stays quiet.

There’s a moment where neither of them speaks, the only sound is her tapping the pen against the desk. She sighs. “Toudou-san, it would be better for yourself to talk to me. If it’s easier, we don’t have to start here. You can tell me anything that’s on your mind. Just- don’t shut down completely, alright? Your doctors say you’ve started eating again and that you’re listening to your physiotherapist, so why won’t you work with me?”

Saburouta looks up from where he’d been burning a hole in the floor with his stare. Her face is politely void, professional but friendly. She wants to help.

(Does he want her to?)

“I d-don’t know what to say...” he mumbles. “I can’t- I don’t know how to...” he groans minutely, rubbing his hands over his face. It’s so hard. Why is it so hard? “I’m not good at talking...” he ends weakly.

“Alright, that’s okay. We can figure out a way to communicate,” she reassures. “How would you feel about keeping a journal? Perhaps writing how you feel and what you think down at your own leisure would be easier? Then we could talk about that.”

For a moment, Saburouta thinks. “I c-could try that, I guess...”

“I’ll tell the nurses, they’ll get you a notebook and something to write with, alright? I want you to write about how you’ve been feeling this past month. Write as much as you can, as everything happened, alright? Then in our next meeting, we’ll use that as a reference, okay?”

Saburouta nods. Then, the session ends after polite farewells, and Saburouta heads back to the hospital room. He can walk by himself now, he’s regained most of the weight he had lost, but he still needs to continue physiotherapy for a while to regain the muscle strength he’d lost.

In the evening, diary and pen in hand, he thinks about what to write and keeps coming up blank. Everything feels like a bad dream. Write down as much as he can… he feels like he’ll get a few sentences in, _if he’s lucky_.

‘I studied hard and still failed the exam,’ he jots down in the end, ’And then... I don’t know.’ He taps the pen against the paper a few times, crosses the last sentence out. ‘It felt like going to sleep, but the sleep was bad.’ He crosses it out again. This is so _frustrating_. He has no idea how to put his thoughts into words.

What did he feel when he got the news? ‘I was devastated.’ Yes, that feels right, but- ‘I still feel devastated.’ Alright, _something_. ‘It’s all bleak and pointless… and It’s my own fault for not being good enough.’ Saburouta frowns down at the page.

’I should have tried harder.’ His frown deepens. It feels true enough, but how could he have possibly tried any harder? He’d given up everything, his whole being, only to get nothing in return. ‘I don’t know what to do or what I feel.’

Wait, that contradicts, doesn’t it? “Fuck,” he mouths and crosses the whole thing out. He should make it make sense. Saburouta sets the pen tip to the paper - and he’s coming up blank again. Why is this so hard?

He sighs heavily and closes the diary. He feels stupid. _This_ is stupid. How exactly does the doctor expect this to help anything? He places the book and pen on the cubby by the bed. Lies down, face first in the pillows.

He doesn’t want to think anymore today. He’ll deal with it tomorrow.

\--

"You didn't write anything?" The psychiatrist asks in their next meeting when he answers negatively to the question ' _did you do your homework_?'

"I did, but…" Saburouta swallows nervously. He pulls the diary out and sets onto her desk gently.

She picks it up, leafs through it. He's ended up filling three pages - and they're all crossed out.

"Why did you cross it out?" she asks as she reads the text. He'd crossed it in a way that left it readable - Saburouta itches to pull the diary from her hands. He doesn't want her to read it all - not really.

Her brow furrows as she flips to the next page. Saburouta finds himself growing tense. Afraid.

"Hm, Toudou-san, I think we can still work with this," she says when she's finished. She closes the diary and slides it back towards him. "Why did you cross everything out?"

Saburouta turns his face to the side, avoiding direct eye contact, "I- I thought th-that it wasn't good enough. I tried - I was thinking about it every day and I… I just couldn't think of how to say it well…"

"I didn't tell you to write well, Toudou-san. I told you to write what you think, how you feel. I don't care about literary talent," she says. Then she pauses, taps her nails against the desk. "Tell me, Toudou-san, do you often find yourself giving up when you think that you are underperforming?"

Saburouta wrings his hands. "I-I mean, isn't it only logical? Wuh-what good is doing something badly?" this is the most he's talked to her. He's so nervous. "At-at best you make a fool o-of yourself… and at worst… you cause p-problems for everyone…"

"I disagree," the psychiatrist says, and Saburouta holds back a flinch, "you have to do something badly before you can do it well. This is improvement. If you're good at something from the start, then what's the point in doing it? What do you gain?"

Saburouta grows flustered, more nervous. "Y-you get recognition?" he feels like he's writing a test in school and failing.

"So… you think that recognition is enough to justify doing things? That it's enough? What about a personal sense of satisfaction? What about just… liking what you do?"

"I…" Saburouta doesn't know how to respond to that. He stays quiet, and the silence drags on, grows uncomfortable.

"Alright, you don't have to answer right away," he lets him off gracefully, "how about a different question- when was the last time someone recognized something you'd done well?"

"Well, nurse Adachi said that-"

"No," she cuts him off with a gentle tone, "outside of the hospital. Someone from your family, or someone from the academy. When was the last time someone commended you? Complimented you? Take your time and think about it."

Saburouta tries and turns back the film, it flashes by bleakly, uneventfully. And - and there's nothing. A sharp pain in his chest. There is no commendment. There are no compliments. He's been chasing such things fruitlessly.

The further back he thinks, the more despair it brings him to come up blank. There's a knot forming in his throat. "Th-there was- ah-" he says, but he doesn't know? Was there? Yes, there was, "Last year, there- d-during a lesson, the professor said I did a good job after I- I'd answered a question right."

He's glad that he's not looking at the psychiatrist. He can hear the pity in her voice when she next speaks, "Last year, for answering a question… What about your family?"

Saburouta shrinks down into the seat. He tries to come up with something, tries to recall when his father or brothers had ever complimented him. He clenches his jaw hard. Half of him knows that he won't find anything. The other half hopes that the first half is wrong.

The silence stretches on long enough that the answer becomes obvious in a painful kind of way.

“Alright,” she says, “How about this - when was the last time you think you did something well?”

“D-does it have to be outside the hospital again?” he asks.

“No, it can be any time.”

Saburouta thinks, “W-well, I started eating again… a-and I do my exercises...”

“Do you personally see those as achievements, or did you name them because you think that’s what I want to hear?”

“I- I don’t know,” Saburouta stammers. Why did he say that? Is he happy about it? What is he even happy about? When was the last time he was happy? The questions roll around in his head sluggishly. He doesn’t know how to answer them. He pulls his knees up and hugs them. Oh, he doesn’t know what to think.

“Alright, perhaps this is a bit much for you at once,” the psychiatrist says gently, “How about for our next session you try writing again - how you feel and how you would like to feel. I want you to try and understand your own wants and needs- not what others expect from you. Not me, not the hospital staff, and not your family. Can you do that, Toudou-san?”

Saburouta nods meekly. It sounds simple enough, but he knows it will be hard.

“Oh, and one more thing - please don’t cross anything out this time. Just let the thought flow however it may- anything you write will be good enough. Alright?”

“A-alright...” he answers.

\--

“Your biggest struggle is that you lack a sense of self,” the psychiatrist says a few sessions later.

Saburouta’s grown more comfortable with talking to her and with writing his thoughts down in the little diary. He trusts her enough to share. He trusts her to not make fun of them. But this - this is a cold opener to the session. Where he’d been sitting comfortably, Saburouta tenses up, draws himself smaller.

“You need constant outside reassurance to believe that what you do is right. You fear the possibility of making a mistake like the plague.” She doesn’t stop, her voice is the same friendly, gentle tone she’s been using up to now. “Now, I am going to give you some time to think, and I want you to give me a reason for why you are like this. There are no wrong answers, I simply need to gauge where you are at now mentally. Take your time, you can speak when you’re ready.”

She pulls out some kind of paperwork and starts filing. And Saburouta is left to mull the thought over - why is he the way that he is? Nothing comes to mind. He’s just… always been like this, hasn’t he? He’s always been the problem child; he’s always been slow and clumsy and just… not good at anything. How can he find a reason for that?

"Uh-uhn,” he starts after a minute. His heart is hammering, his voice shakes. Saburouta clears his throat when the psychiatrist sets her pen down and closes the folder, her attention shifting firmly back to him.

”B-because I'm just - I’m _wrong_ ," Saburouta says cautiously, almost like a question. "I m-mean I’ve- I’ve always been like this, I think," he pauses, mouth feeling dry. It is at once excruciating and incredibly freeing to admit this thought out loud, "I just - I know I’m no good and I’ve accepted that. It won’t change."

"Well," the doctor says, calm and blank and Saburouta _hates hates hates_ it, "I have to disagree with that firmly. You are not ‘ _wrong_ ’, Toudou-san, and the way you are is a result of all your experiences. A cold and affectionless family, teachers that wouldn’t meet you half-way, peers that didn’t take the time to get to know you and befriend you."

Saburouta flinches at the word like it's a physical blow. Her words hurt, because - because he wants to believe them. But then - then what does that _mean_?

There's a pause and Saburouta hides his face in his hands because he’s close to crying again.

"Tell me, Toudou-san, do you think that people deserve second chances when they make mistakes and support when they struggle?" the doctor asks, and the question burns.

Saburouta curls up tighter, hiding himself away. It's surprisingly hard to answer. He knows what he should answer, he knows what's right, and yet. He can’t. Saburouta stays quiet, anxiety climbing higher and higher with each painfully quiet second that passes.

"They do, Toudou-san," the doctor says. " _You_ deserve it too."

“No,” Saburouta says in a quiet, wet voice, tears overflowing. He shakes his head, “ _no_.”

“Toudou-san, take your time to process this,” she says. “You’re upset, I know. This is very hard for you. But please, do not shut down, alright?”

Saburouta nods weakly. He’s so tired. He’s so tired of _feeling like this_. He’s tired of being ripped open and rummaged through, of being turned around and left disoriented and unsure. Tired of questioning everything he’s thought all his life.

The psychiatrist leads him through some calming exercises, advises how to deal with any overwhelming emotions. Once he’s calmed down, they dig a little deeper into his childhood, more importantly on his relationship with his father. He’s absolutely exhausted by the end of the session, and that night he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

\--

This goes on for a long time. Slowly but surely, the psychiatrist digs through his brain and points out all the ways he’s been working against himself. They touch up on his academic failures - and how they’re not really his failures but a series of unfortunate circumstances-, and how to cope with them and stop feeling so _guilty_ all the time. They touch up on his family life - mostly his father and brothers, and then everyone else. How they treat him, how their attitudes and expectations have shaped him into what he is now.

It’s painful. It’s transformative. It puts a lot of things in perspective. But it also reveals to Saburouta just how much he’s been wronged all his life, and that comes with a certain amount of anger and resentment.

Suddenly, he’s thinking of every time they yelled at him or hurt him in a new light. Daring to entertain the thought that _they’re_ wrong in how they treated him. Daring to think that he didn’t deserve it. It feels like blasphemy.

And it’s hard to come to terms with. There’s a nagging little voice that won’t let up, tells him that the doctors are lying, that he’s getting cocky and full of himself by even thinking of criticising his family. He tries to quiet that voice, to believe the psychiatrist’s words instead, because they give him - well, - a hope that maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.

His thoughts are a mess, to say the least. All up in the air and refusing to settle down. But it’s - he’s getting better.

But then they _release him_.

\--

“I think you’ve come a long way, Toudou-san,” the doctor says, seeing him off, “You’re well enough to get back to things. Just come for your bi-weekly sessions, and you can keep up your progress. I see a lot of potential in you.”

Saburouta nods mutely. A part of him terrified to leave. He’s gotten used to the regularity, the cleanliness, the staff. He can’t imagine going back home, going back to his family, back to the chaos of everyday life, back to… studying for his meister.

Saburouta feels lightheaded as he signs his name on the release forms.

“Well then,” doctor Kyuryuu says with a friendly smile, reaching out to shake Saburouta’s hand, “It’s been a pleasure working with you. Be well and stay strong, Toudou-san.”

Saburouta nods with a strained smile. Leaves after a brief goodbye.

Tsuguro is waiting outside by the car, looking incredibly irritated.

“Took you long enough, did you crawl or what?” he says in lieu of a greeting, “God, you’re going to make me late for a meeting. Get in and let’s go already.”

Saburouta nods mutely and gets in the car. Tsuguro begins driving.

“Bet you’re glad to finally get out of that place for good,” he says after a while. Then, he runs a red light, making Saburouta clutch the seat in horror.

“I’ll have to come back,” he answers tightly. Just saying the words make his stomach churn - he knows how the other will react.

“You’ll _what_?” Tsuguro asks with a good deal of irritation in his voice.

“Th-they want me to come in for, uh, therapy sessions t-twice a week,” Saburouta says, feeling small.

Tsuguro scoffs, “No fuckin’ way. Are you for real right now? If they let you out, then you’re over it- whatever the fuck kind of hissy fit you were throwing. They just want to make some more cash. You’re _not going_ ,” he laughs, disbelieving, “two times a week. Fucking _wow_. Dad’s not paying for that shit, you know.”

Saburouta shrinks down in his seat, quiet. He had a sneaking suspicion this might happen. He knew they would react like this.

And - Tsuguro tells dad when they get home, of course.

“No,” Raijin Toudou says, voice sounding final. His face is set in the same scowl as always.

“But the-” Saburouta starts, wincing at the sound of his own voice, the meekness is grating even to himself, “but the doctor said I still need to come in. That I’m not- I’m not done getting better. I still-”

“If you weren’t done getting better, they wouldn’t have let you out, stupid boy,” Raijin says derisively.

And no no no, that’s not true, he’s still not good, he’s still a mess, he needs to keep going, keep talking about this stuff lest he go back to how he was before.

And- and he can’t do this _alone_. If Saburouta could just make them understand! If he could just explain it like he’d practiced in the evening before bed- but real life is so much scarier, and he’s forgotten all his arguments and defences. He’s just - he’s still the scared, spineless coward he was before. It’s almost like nothing’s changed, like two months of therapy have come undone at the very sight of his family.

“Please, I need this,” Saburouta says, desperate.

Raijin’s face darkens, he steps in closer, claps Saburouta on the shoulder harshly, “What you _need_ , boy, is to study up for your Aria exam. I tolerated your failure once. I tolerated you acting up. I paid for your little _hospital vacation_ ,” the man lets out a kind of menacing aura that has Saburouta wanting to draw back - he feels so _unsafe_ \- “I’m done dealing with your shit, Saburouta. You’re an adult, start acting like it. You want your little brainwashing sessions? Get a job and pay for them yourself.”

He shoves Saburouta back; he barely keeps his footing.

“You’re going to pass next time or so help me I will throw you out on the street, you hear me?” Raijin booms.

Saburouta nods, biting his tongue. He’s close to hysterics. Why can’t he fight back? Why can’t he overcome this horrible, pervasive fear?

Raijin turns around and storms off to his office. His brothers scoff and mutter to each other before disappearing as well. The window of opportunity shuts closed firmly, and some invisible hand turns the lock. Saburouta has lost his chance.

And, unfortunately, that’s that.

\--

Loathe as he is to admit it, Saburouta unravels bit by agonising bit. Everything he’d learned in therapy feels empty and untrue without the psychiatrist there to reinforce it, and the general attitude of people around him shove him back into the hole he’d just barely started crawling out of.

He’s losing control in slow motion, returning to the way that he was before it all, and then the hope he’d felt for a brief moment flickers out like a candle at the end of its wick. His hospital stay starts feeling like a pleasant, distant dream, and reality crushes it like a brutal stranger stepping into a flowerbed with the intention to kill the flowers down to the roots.

He studies again. Verses upon verses, from dawn to dusk with minute pauses in between. Isolated and mute. A machine fulfilling its duty mindlessly. It’s despair inducing. It’s maddening.

The only thing he keeps up is journaling. He starts a diary he keeps hidden under the mattress of his bed and he pours his heart out into it recklessly. Every dreary thought, every dying hope, documented in ink, page after page after page of despair.

Saburouta doesn’t want to live like this. But - he is paralysed at the very thought of trying for something different.

\--

He fails again, four months later when the next exam date is. It’s the worst thing ever. Worse than last time, because he almost gets it, fuck, he butchers it at the last fucking second and- and -

The emotion, the sheer disappointment he feels is so strong he _shuts down_.

“I’m sorry, Toudou-san,” the instructor says, “but I can’t let you pass. You forgot the end of the verse - that’s a fatal mistake.”

Saburouta nods numbly, looking somewhere off into the distance.

“You’ll need to re-take the exam again,” she continues, “the next date is-”

“I know when it is,” he interrupts, voice politely blank, “thank you, and goodbye.”

\--

Saburouta delays going home for as long as he can. He wanders the city until his feet feel like they’re raw. He sits in a cafe nursing a cup coffee anxiously for hours.

He doesn’t want to go home. Doesn’t want to meet his family. Doesn’t want them to know he fucked up again. (They probably know anyway. They always know when he fucks up.)

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ll be closing soon,” the waitress says, her impatience showing through the politeness of her tone.

Saburouta smiles back with the most-fake of cheers. “Oh, sorry. I’ll be leaving now, thank you.”

He drags his feet. He takes the longest way back.

But try as he might to postpone the moment - eventually Saburouta comes home. The front door is terrifyingly loud.

All the lights are out and it’s quiet - everyone must be asleep by now. Saburouta exhales shakily, unsure whether to feel relieved or on edge.

He stalks through the house, heading for his room as quietly as he can, but-

He feels the activation of the barrier beneath his feet more than he sees it. The sound cuts off and he feels the static of the magic. It must’ve been drawn under the carpet. They must’ve been waiting for him.

They must’ve known he would try and run from the consequences of failure. Saburouta rubs his face in frustration. Oh, he’s in trouble now. He shouldn’t be so surprised, really. This - it all feels inescapable.

“If you had any idea what’s good for you, boy, you wouldn’t have come back,” his father’s voice says as said man comes into view, still in uniform sans the coat. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos on display.

“I’m sorry,” Saburouta all but squeaks as Raijin comes closer, radiating anger. He wants to say more but the words won’t come. “ _I’m so sorry_.”

“No, Saburouta,” Raijin says lowly, voice clear and smooth and final. He stops in front of Saburouta to slide his rings off and put them in his pocket. Rolls his shoulders. Saburouta shrinks back in fearful anticipation, but he’s stuck. Trapped and defenceless.

(He deserves what he’s about to get-)

Saburouta feels a panic coming on; he can’t- oh fuck, he _can’t_ _breathe_.

“You’re _not sorry yet_ , at least,” Raijin says and releases the barrier.

\--

Saburouta wakes up. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

_Everything hurts_.

“Saburouta, you’re awake,” a voice says, and Saburouta makes out a vaguely familiar blurry shape standing over him, “I’ll go tell the nurses.”

Saburouta tries to look around, squinting. The surroundings look unfamiliar. It smells like disinfectant and body fluids.

Two people enter the room. Is this- is he in a hospital again?

“How are you feeling?” a different-from-before voice asks. They stand at the foot of the bed he’s on.

“I’m… I’m achy all over,” Saburouta answers. Why is that? God, what the hell happened?

“Oh, I bet,” the voice from before laughs - it’s Waro, “those guys really roughed you up, huh? Ah, I was so worried! Do you even remember what happened? Bars can be so dangerous.”

“Bars...” Saburouta doesn’t go to bars. What is Waro on about?

“Yeah, we keep telling you to stay away from them. But you just love drinking your sorrows away, don’t you, brother? Though, I suppose I understand wanting to drink after news like that...” Waro’s closer now, but not close enough to be in focus. Saburouta squints harder, wishing he had his glasses right now.

“I-” Saburouta starts, and then it all comes back. He feels nauseous all of a sudden. He has no idea what Waro’s on about, but he hadn’t gone to any bars. He’d gone to the cafe and then he’d gone home and- _fuck_ \- Dad had-

“God, you’re so lucky one of dad’s colleagues was there and recognised you and intervened. Who knows what would have happened otherwise?” Waro says, clapping Saburouta on the shoulder - and, ow!

But what he’s saying doesn’t make sense, surely Waro knows better than that. But his grip on Saburouta’s shoulder tightens - almost as if in warning-

Saburouta freezes when he realises what’s happening. What Waro is ever-so-wordlessly telling him to do. The room feels a lot colder than it did just a moment ago. They want him to lie. Dad had- and they want him to just-

“Your brother is right - you were in pretty bad condition when you arrived,” the nurse says from his other side, “You’re lucky they got you here so quickly, Toudou-san. The world is such a nasty place sometimes, “she sighs, sad. But, god, she has no idea -” We’ll have to do some tests now that you’re awake. See if there’s any damage we missed.”

Saburouta nods. Still processing with what’s happening here. They want him to play along. They want him to keep quiet. God, this is fucked up. So _fucked up._

Waro lifts Saburouta’s hand and places what Saburouta recognises as glasses in it. He puts them on - and they’re his back-up pair, he notes - the optics are a bit weaker than his current ones. Though, grimly, Saburouta assumes those are broken now. He looks at Waro - he looks pale, a little green in the gills, really. He’s pleading with Saburouta with his eyes.

_Please play along_.

Saburouta wants to throw up.

“It’s great that you’re awake now,” Waro says, “Everyone will be so happy to hear it.” Will they really? “Saburouta, I have to go now, but please work with the doctors, alright?” _Don’t tell them the truth_. “I hope you recover quickly. Me and Tsuguro will try to visit and keep you company, alright?” _We’ll keep an eye on you so that you don’t cause trouble._

When Waro leaves, there’s silence. The nurse breaks it cautiously, “Toudou-san, the doctor will come by soon and you can go over what happened with him if you remember. He’ll also look you over. Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” he chokes out, voice shaky, “That’s fine.”

Saburouta has three fractured ribs on his right side, nasty bruises all over that hurt when he moves, and the fingers of his left hand are splinted. Apparently, he’d had a concussion too.

It’s a lot to take in.

He really- he really doesn’t remember most of it. Just bits and flashes, the pervading fear. His time in the hospital this time is accompanied with a growing feeling of dread. He goes along with the whole coverup idea about getting into a fight at the bar. Somewhere deep inside, he thinks it sounds decidedly less pathetic than getting beat by his father. That’s all he really is. Pathetic.

\--

When he’s released from the hospital, no one comes to pick him up this time. He walks home filled with an anxiety that grows stronger as he gets closer to home. Somewhere along the way, it gets so bad that he has to stop and just _breathe_ so that he doesn’t throw up. He’s shaking at the prospect of seeing his dad again after- after-

He’d go literally anywhere else in the world, if he could.

But then he actually gets home, and… nothing. It’s so normal it’s scary. Everyone talks to him like he’s just come back home from the library and not the fucking hospital.

“Oh, Saburouta, you’re back already? Come, help me set up the table for dinner,” their housekeeper, Aya, says by way of greeting.

Stupefied, Saburouta nods, swallows down everything he wants to say. He feels like he’s going insane. He didn’t just imagine the past week, did he? The leftover twinge in his side when he breathes too deeply says no, but he finds himself questioning reality anyway.

Dinner is quiet and polite and _tense_. Saburouta doesn’t look up from his plate. Just knowing that his father is sitting a few meters off is making his heart race with terror. He can hardly eat, can hardly think past the fear in his head, past the urge to _run for it_.

He plans to sneak off after dinner, but the plan is foiled when Raijin calls out to him. Saburouta nearly starts crying, but manages to face his dad. His knees are shaking.

“W-what is it?” he asks in the smallest voice ever.

“You should start taking your studies seriously, Saburouta,” Raijin says in an eerily toneless voice, “I would _hate_ to see you fail a third time.”

“I, ah, yes, I-” Saburouta squeaks, filled with pure terror, “I’ll p-pass.”

“You better,” Raijin says as he steps closer, scowling down at Saburouta, “In fact, I want you to promise it.”

Saburouta’s shaking all over now - insuppressable tremors down his spine, along his limbs. He wants nothing more than to turn tail and run, to get away _get away_ -

“I promise,” Saburouta all but whispers, but his voice breaks and fuck _he’s so pathetic_.

“What was that?” Raijin asks, putting a hand to his ear and leaning in, “Speak up, boy,” he growls.

“I promise I’ll pass,” Saburouta says, voice tight and noticeably panicked, but louder than before.

“Good,” his father says and turns to walk away.

It takes a while for Saburouta to remember how to breathe. Longer still to remember how to walk. He collapses when he’s in his room, after closing the door. His legs refuse to cooperate. His heart refuses to still.

He’s so _fucked_.

\--

Saburouta studies like he's possessed, like he’s never studied before. He studies like his life depends on it, and it honestly _just might_.

In the five months leading up to the exam, he regularly gets no sleep, overdoses on caffeine just to keep going and suffers from anxiety so severe it’s debilitating. He avoids his family as best as he can because they make it all worse, especially his dad. He barely talks to anyone, spends days on end without talking at all.

His only outlet is his journal - he’s started a new one by now, tucked next to the first where no one would find it. Only it knows how he suffers, and only it knows of his troubled thoughts, his fears, anxieties. Only there he admits the aches and the pains, the strain he feels, the downwards spiral of his health.

It’s a very dark and hopeless and terrible period of his life. A period of fear, all driven by just one simple, animal need: Survive.

And then the exam day comes. He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten in two days. His hands are shaking, and he can’t stop them. He dry heaves in the bathroom before leaving home and comes to the exam looking like someone pulled skin over a skeleton and then awkwardly reanimated it.

Everybody looks at him with concern or- or judging and he curls up small and hides away in the corners to avoid their gazes. He feels like they know, as if it’s written all over him. He feels dirty and shameful and ugly under their scrutiny.

It’s not like he wants to be this way. He would rather be any _where_ else doing any _thing_ else. But - but he doesn’t have a choice. He’s trapped by his circumstances.

The exam passes in a blur. He moves on autopilot, talks and chants on autopilot. His brain lags behind everything that happens by minutes. It’s disorienting and he’s feeling nauseous again by the time it’s over.

The instructor looks him over with a deep frown. “You’ve passed, Toudou-san.”

Saburouta can’t believe his ears. He blinks behind his glasses, squints until her blurry form comes more into focus, “I what?”

“You’ve passed,” she repeats, “You’re an Aria now.”

“I’m an… oh,” the words take a bit to register. He feels some great rock roll off his heart, “You mean I… I _passed_?”

“Yes,” she says with a nod, frown deepening, “but I think you will need to take some time off, Toudou-san.” She eyes his wobbling form with open worry.

“No, I’m- haha- I’m fine!” Saburouta exclaims, voice taking on a manic edge. He feels tears running down his face, “This is! This is great! Oh my god, you have _no idea_ how happy I am!”

“I can see that you are happy, but I do not think that you are well,” she says.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Saburouta asks with a large grin. “I’m an Aria! Oh, god!”

He takes the certificate with shaking hands. He’s almost out of the building when he feels a sudden, blinding pain in his stomach.

He doubles over, certificate falling from his hands. The pain is horrible and intense.

“Are you okay?” someone asks. Saburouta can hardly hear it. He gags, suddenly nauseous again, and throws up- some kind of black, gritty stuff.

“Oh my god!” the person exclaims, stepping backwards.

Odd, Saburouta hasn’t eaten. How does he have anything to throw up?

The pain doubles on the next gag, and then he can no longer think. He curls up, falls over on his side in a foetal position. Every slightest movement is agonising. Even breathing hurts so fucking bad.

“Call an ambulance!” he hears someone say, but his surroundings are a blur. Someone touches his clammy forehead, slicking the hair back in an awkward motion. Saburouta moans in pain.

What the hell is happening?

\--

Saburouta opens his eyes. He has a sneaking suspicion he knows where he is, judging by the colour of the ceiling and the smell.

He feels fuzzy, and dreamy, and soft. But his head hurts. Weird combo.

“You seem to be making a habit of this,” the voice of his father says right next to him.

Oddly enough, Saburouta doesn’t get that jolt of terror from his father’s presence like usual. He feels… calm? Turns his head to stare at Raijin’s form.

“What happened?” he asks, voice scratchy. His throat feels weird, like something’s stuck in it.

“Perforated peptic ulcer. You collapsed after the exam and they took you in for urgent surgery.”

Saburouta frowns, trying to rewind his memories, but all he remembers is _pain_. “How?”

“Do I look like a doctor to you, boy?” Raijin asks, irritated.

“I’m the doctor,” a different voice says. “Judging by your overall appearance and constitution, this was only a matter of time. You’re lucky you got to the hospital so fast,” he pauses, there’s the sound of paper flipping over, “the surgery went well, all things considered. But you will need to alter your lifestyle, Toudou-san. You’ve been putting too much stress on your body and health.”

Saburouta swallows weakly. Yeah, that’s- that’s fair. He hasn’t been taking care of himself in the least. He‘s had _better things_ to do.

“We’ll be observing you for the rest of the week, and then we’ll evaluate if you need to stay longer. You’re not allowed to leave the bed for now and try to not move around or cough too much, it could open up the stitches.”

Saburouta nods. There’s a bad taste in his mouth.

“Very well,” the doctor says, “get some rest.” He then leaves the room, asking his father to come along.

Saburouta shifts in bed and feels the tell-tale pull of a catheter in his forearm. He frowns at the feeling. At the predicament. ‘ _You seem to be making a habit of this,_ ’ the voice of his father says in his head like an echo. It is haunting, teasing, decidedly derisive.

‘ _I know_ ,’ Saburouta thinks, staring up at the ceiling in quiet contempt as he touches the bandages on his abdomen gently (the wound and stitches are sore under the touch), ‘ _I hate it_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... that was quite a rough time, no? I wan't to say it gets better from here, but honestly? It's only a little bit. Oof.


	3. Tamer: A flightless bird. A fish out of water. A dog that bites.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being an exorcist is hard work, and not always pleasant, especially when your colleagues don't like you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains an instance of self harm and animal death.
> 
> *Saburouta voice* "I hate my fucking job."

Saburouta starts working as an Aria only a month after getting his qualification. And even then, he’s delegated to deskwork for _another_ month. Well, that’s fine. He didn’t fail this time, and that’s all he really _needed_.

His father is, well, not satisfied, but seems content enough. Doesn’t hound him about anything, doesn’t yell. All in all, and despite everything, those first two months are blissful and the best thing that’s happened to his nerves in a long time.

Recovery is a tricky process. Everything about it occupies his brain - He’s got all these limitations now, all these recommendations to adhere to. No coffee, nothing too spicy or peppered, no citrus, be wary of acidic foods - bla bla bla. But! - At the same time, he has to eat regularly and in small portions, has to remember to take medication on an empty stomach at least half an hour before eating-

And so on and on.

The scar is tender and pink on his stomach, he sees it every day while getting dressed and thinks about just how badly he was doing in those five months leading up to the exam. It feels unreal again, the same way the times leading up to the previous exams feel unreal. Two years of this now - of studying himself to the bone, of working tirelessly towards a meister - a piece of paper, really - and landing himself in the hospital for a brief respite, only to do it all over again once he’s out.

It’s kind of surreal to think about. It almost feels like it happened to someone else. But it didn’t. That happened to _him_. Well, he’s alive now and done with that, and mostly whole. He pulls a shirt over his head, and it hides the scar, and he looks _normal_ now.

Perhaps he’ll start feeling normal at some point as well, but for now Saburouta’s just happy to be able to breathe.

\--

Despite being around for a brief time, Saburouta seems to have managed to build a reputation of bad luck. It takes him a while to notice that everyone is wary of him, but once he does, it becomes impossible to miss.

Now, his colleagues of course try to be cordial and they are decent most of the time, but… they avoid working with him, or staying in close vicinity for longer than necessary. It stings a little, but he thinks - ‘Hey, I don’t want to be around people unless I absolutely have to either, so this is a win,’ - and shrugs it off easy enough.

Then - when he’s fit for field work, they try to avoid being paired with him for missions. Some of them even _call in sick_ , and that doesn’t just sting. That hurts. Like salt rubbed into the raw wounds left behind by his school life. ‘Well, if they’re like that, it’s fine,’ he justifies, tries to think away the pain in his heart, ‘I’d rather not work with assholes anyways.’

Before he knows it, Saburouta is alone. Same as always. He’d thought that it would be different now that he’s an exorcist, but… that really was much too naive a thought from someone like him. Why would anything change? An outcast he was then, and an outcast he remains now.

Well, alright, _some_ things have changed. No one would ever ask Saburouta for his homework, but covering a shift is something else altogether. They get all nice and friendly when they ask him for _that,_ or for him to take on multiple-day a field mission, or other work-related tasks.

Saburouta hates himself for it, but when they go, ‘oh, you’re such a great guy, wow, you’re so nice’ his will to say no crumbles up. And - he knows better than this - but like the weak, spineless little bitch that he is, he just lets them walk all over him and he _smiles_ through it too, all because they say ‘Thank you’.

(He doesn’t even know if they _mean it_. Some lonely part of him just wants to be wanted, wants to be acknowledged.)

It keeps landing him in trouble and a bigger workload than necessary. But - working hard is good, right? That’s what he’s heard, that’s what everyone always says, so it has to be true, and it’s more or less the only good thing about Saburouta. His ability to force himself to work beyond his limits.

Saburouta wishes he could be different, could be someone more assertive, more charming, less whatever the fuck he is, less _Saburouta_. He feels less like a person and more like a plant. Or maybe a fish? Something that moves and does things, but makes no sound, leaves no impression.

He finds out about any and all staff events _post factum;_ when everyone’s discussing how much who drank and where they should go next time. They hush when they realise he’s overheard, and the more polite ones even drop the subject in a manner similar to scolded children. Others don’t care. Some even seem to revel in Saburouta’s exclusion - talking about socialisation and small talk and booze in a grand, boastful manner. Almost itching for Saburouta to call out this cruel social act.

He knows better than to bite such bait. He’s good at tuning out the rest of the world. It really is such a useful skill.

Everything - all of this piles up. It’s different from before, but similar enough that Saburouta recognises his own growing distress, his own growing contempt. There’s a certain background radiation in his life now, a sort of listless loneliness and quiet frustration and… hatred? He’s reminded of that first hospital stay, of how hopeless he felt back then.

And it’s not so bad now, in comparison. This is miles better, both subjectively and objectively. Why - he’s finally employed, and his family doesn’t chew him out for every little thing. He gets sleep, plenty of it (even if some nights it’s hard to fall asleep), he gets time to rest, to indulge in his hobbies - mostly reading philosophy books and any and all classical literature he can get his hands on.

But, even with all these pros… it’s still hard.

Saburouta has to admit to himself that his life is just a series of goals he’s chasing after - not for himself, no, for others - his family, the order, complete fucking strangers. And he thinks, geez, maybe he’ll finally be _happy_ after this one, maybe he’ll start _feeling okay_ if he just does that one, and it never comes, and his chase is useless the same way that _he_ is useless and-

And he doesn’t know what to do about it, so he doesn’t do _anything,_ trapping himself in this hole of not-quite-great-but-not-as-bad-as-it-could-be.

\--

“Hey, Toudou-san,” a voice says, disturbing him from where he’s nose-deep in paperwork. Saburouta turns to find his colleague smiling sheepishly at him. She’s a new transfer to the Tokyo branch and they’ve talked a few times - she seems really nice. _Seems_.

“What is it, Koizumi-san?” he asks, soft and gentle, a familiar awkward smile slipping onto his face. He slides the top-most document off to the side to hide the open notebook next to the stack, where he’s practicing drawing some seals.

“I wanted to know,” she starts, looking off to the side nervously. It exposes the graceful line of her neck. “... Are you busy on the fifteenth?”

Saburouta stills, mind racing. Then steels himself, unwilling to, ah, get his hopes up or anything. “No, I don’t have anything particular planned,” he says, “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just,” she says, turning her head the other way, avoiding his gaze. She’s cute up close, he can smell her perfume. “I was wondering if you would… If you’d be okay with...”

Whatever she wants to ask seems to be hard on her with how she’s fidgeting. Warmth crawls up Saburouta’s collar - oh how he wishes it wouldn’t. At the same time, there’s a sinking sensation in his gut - a well-worn disappointed feeling. Inconspicuously, he digs the nail of one hand into his knee to keep his face neutral.

“It’s just- I have this party I was invited to,” she continues, flustered, looking right at him with her beautiful brown eyes-

“and I need someone to cover my shift. I’m so sorry to ask this of you, we barely know each other, but you’re the only one I could think to ask. I’m sorry.”

Ah, _yes_.

He’s not disappointed, he’s not angry. He already knew better than to assume anything else than a favour. Tsk. Calling him nice, when what she really means is that she knows he’s a pushover.

Saburouta smiles his most pleasant smile - it doesn’t even shake! He’s getting better and better at this -, and says in his most pleasant voice, “Su-sure. It’s, ah, no problem, Koizumi-san. I’ll take the shift, okay. Will you, uhm, tell Sakamoto-san, or should I?”

She smiles wide and genuine at him, “Oh, I’ll tell him, thank you, Toudou-san, you’re a lifesaver!”

Something inside of Saburouta twists painfully. Her gratitude seems sincere, but he hesitates to believe it.

“Of course, haha,” he says, straining to make the smile seem more genuine, “Have fun at the party, Koizumi-san!”

She walks away with a spring in her step. He watches her retreating form blankly. Hears voices talking just outside the door-

“-w did it go?” someone asks, hushed.

“-was so awkward!” Koizumi replies, strained. There is a quiet chorus of giggles; Saburouta feels himself tense.

“I know right? How can someone be so uncomfortable to talk with?” a different voice asks, louder, not caring or not knowing that he can still hear, “But he agreed, that’s the main thing. Ahh, it’s like Sato said, he has no personality and nothing better to do than work.”

They laugh again. Saburouta turns back to the paperwork he has to finish, his ears ringing with the sound of it. He feels sick, he _feels sick_ at their voices, at their words.

What did he do wrong? Why does it feel like everyone is out to get him, out to blacken his name? He’s nice and he’s polite, he - he’s not the best at communicating but he’s always on his best behaviour and helpful whenever he has to work with others, his own misgivings shoved to the side and away.

So… why? Why won’t anyone give him the benefit of the doubt?

They’re not so wrong, he knows. Saburouta is indeed quite pathetic - he works full time and doesn’t go out. He never knows what’s hip or cool. He doesn’t know anything about sports or politics or music or theatre. He’s a little puppet on a string with no personality.

Saburouta grips his pen tighter, knuckles paling with the force. _There’s_ that festering frustration, that loathing bubbling up again deep inside him. But... he’s disconnected from it. As if it were someone else’s, as if he’s a stranger to himself. Like he’s looking at the contents of his own brain with disinterest.

He takes a shaky breath, closes his eyes. Breathes out slow and smooth.

So what, his colleagues avoid him all the time, only to ask him to work in their stead. Saburouta fills out another form in his best calligraphy. It’s not like he needs them for anything. The contempt he feels for them is no doubt bigger than whatever ill will they have towards him.

He’s just... unable to show it, unlike them. Doesn’t share it in whispers to his friends, or at least he wouldn’t if he had friends. He was raised much better than that. It’s rude, and Saburouta _isn’t_.

He ends up doing all the paperwork on autopilot. He could leave it as is, but he doesn’t. What if he’s made a mistake without even realising it? He needs to re-read it all to make sure...

\--

Saburouta’s drawing close to some kind of breaking point. He’s been crawling up the walls with every frustration and dark though that’s pent up inside him. He needs release or he’ll _go mad_.

He gets into a fight.

It’s not a planned thing - he’s just walking home from work and some drunk man starts talking and- and all Saburouta can see is _red_. It’s far from honourable and fair - he knows he has an advantage. But he can’t bring himself to care.

He imagines it’s someone else bleeding and crying out under his fists. Imagines it’s somebody who’s done him _wrong_.

(An endless series of faces flashes through his mind, and each of his thoughts is more contemptuous than the last. He thinks of his ex-classmates, of his colleagues, of his brothers, of his-)

He comes to from that furious haze kneeling over the man, who’s- he’s still alive, but- not well in the least. A puddle of blood pools beneath his head, black in the low light.

Saburouta stares down and… nothing.

He doesn’t feel guilt, just… a sick sort of satisfaction. ‘That’s not normal,’ he thinks, turning over his hand to see where the skin over his knuckles has split open and bleeds sluggishly. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts.

He just feels empty.

With strain, he gets up, wipes the blood off and looks around to see if anyone else is around. But the alley is empty. No one knows what he’s done.

Saburouta looks down at the man laying supine and still and he wonders if anyone would even care.

\--

Every break he’s ever gotten has been equipped with a burning wick like a bomb. And this one is close to detonating.

One day, dad starts needling Saburouta again. Says that no son of his should stay with only one meister, and that Saburouta better get to studying for another, such as tamer.

“You’ve long since healed, so stop acting so pathetic, boy,” Raijin says, “the lazing about ends now! You must work like an honest, proper man. Otherwise - you will make us look bad.”

And Saburouta nods obediently because he doesn’t dare disobey. (There’s a dull ache in his side when he breathes deeper - a morbid reminder of what happens when he’s not good enough.)

So, he starts spending all his free time in the library and training rooms, studying and practicing the art of taming demons. The more Saburouta reads, the more interested he becomes. This is different from how it was in school - he’s free to read whatever he might want. And he does - after a brief period of refreshing his basic demonology knowledge from school notes, he returns to the literature about taming. The branch library has some truly nice books.

He works through them slowly - he reads quickly, but it’s the understanding and memorisation that’s his pitfall, so he keeps coming back to re-read the books time and time again without much success. The wording doesn’t always work for him - even more so when every damn book references a different book by one or another long-dead author and there’s more classifications for everything than there are stars in the night sky.

Saburouta groans as he hits yet another dead-end. The book he needs to understand the sigils used in upper-level fire demon summoning and how their properties might differ depending on the way they are drawn or with what they are drawn… isn’t in the library.

He runs a hand through his hair and looks at the curriculum he’d copied off the Tamer program file. The theme and question stares back at him mockingly. Why do they ask questions that the students can’t find answers to?

He’s startled by someone placing a cup in front of him. He looks up, wide eyed, at the person who put it there.

“I thought you could use some coffee,” the person - it’s one of the archivists, he realises - says, “You’ve been coming here every day and spending such a long time…” he pauses, looks at the books spread out in front of Saburouta, ”are you researching something? Do you need some help?”

Saburouta eyes the man balefully, then looks at the coffee, and back again. “I-I’m, ah, studying… f-for a tamer’s meister...”

“Oh, you’re looking at really advanced books for that!” the man replies with a light laugh, “I would’ve assumed you’re a seasoned tamer.”

Saburouta feels his cheeks grow hot. “I- these- I couldn’t find any other books, so I’ve been-”

“Ah, wait,” he cuts Saburouta off, “Couldn’t find any other books? That’s odd - did you check the specialties isles?”

“The what?” Saburouta asks with a growing sense of embarrassment. Oh no...

“Come with me, I’ll show you- we have the books in program curriculums in a separate isle to make them easier to find. You must have been looking for everything through the categories - all those are a bit advanced.”

Saburouta groans in dismay. Of-fucking-course he’s been making things harder for himself. _Classic_. “God, I’m- I didn’t know that...”

The man laughs - but it’s not a mean kind of laugh - at least Saburouta thinks so. “Well, you’ll know now, and hopefully it will make things easier.” He gestures towards the shelf, and indeed there are textbooks, rather fresh-looking ones at that, about taming.

“Th-thank you,” Saburouta says sheepishly.

“It’s no problem,” he replies.

The man helps him pick out the books he needs and bring them back to where he’d been sitting and studying. Saburouta is once again reminded of the coffee that sits innocently on the desk. He isn’t sure why it makes him uneasy.

He stares at it when the man has left after Saburouta had thanked him again, and he’d assured that he was only doing his job and making sure visitors found everything they needed. Saburouta isn’t… used to people being so nice to him, not without any ulterior motive. A part of him is tense, afraid that something bad might happen now.

Despite the worry, he takes a sip - it’s just coffee. A little sweeter than he likes, but just coffee. Can good things happen to him too? Can people just be nice for no reason? He sits wondering about it, slowly making his way through the questions - and these books really are a lot easier to read and navigate, dammit. He’s ashamed of his own little mishap but grateful towards the help.

\--

In theory, practice is the same as the theory. In practice, the two are nothing alike.

What good are book smarts and pages of memorised text if Saburouta can’t. Summon. A single. Demon?

Not for a lack of trying, of course. He spends days in the training rooms drawing summoning circles and enunciating the summoning verses and- and watching how everyone else does it. All to no avail. Every time he figures out he’s done something wrong and gets hopeful at it might work this time, it still doesn’t and he’s left like Tantalus - ever reaching for the succulent fruit, ever leaning down for the refreshing water; never getting a taste of either.

“At some point you gotta admit that you’re not fucking cut out for this, kid,” one of the exorcists says as he walks into the training room late in the evening to find Saburouta - exhausted and frustrated and above it all - unsuccessful. “You’ve been at it what- two months? And you haven’t summoned a single thing. You’re not a tamer. Stop.”

Saburouta stares at the man’s shoes from where he’s down on his knees on the floor. His hands and pants are dirty with chalk. His throat is sore.

The man’s words really hurt.

“I can’t just give up on this,” he mutters lowly, “I need to get Tamer.”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean? You’re already an Aria, right? Just go for something else,” the man counters.

“I can’t,” Saburouta admits, a certain darkness slipping into the words. His father looks down on Doctors because they’re ‘just support’. And Saburouta doesn’t have the physical capabilities to try for Knight or Dragoon. And he can’t stay _just an Aria_ , because-

Well. There would be consequences.

Saburouta lifts his gaze up from the floor and looks into the man’s eyes, “I need to get Tamer.” The words come out cold and determined. Ominous.

The man looks uncomfortable now. “But why?”

Saburouta can’t answer that. There’s a tense silence. Then, he says, “If you didn’t come here to practice, then leave. You’re ruining my concentration.”

The man goes from uncomfortable to visibly annoyed in the span of a second, “Jeez, no need to be such a dick. I wanted to advise you against this as your senior, since it’s obvious you’ll never get it, but if you want to delude yourself into thinking you’ll successfully summon something one day, then who the hell am I to stop you?” he turns to walk back out of the door, but looks at Saburouta one last time before leaving, “I wish you good luck, Toudou-kun, because you will need as much as you can possibly get.”

The man leaves with a loud thud of the door shutting. Saburouta finds himself shaking with - what is it? Is it anger? Panic? Despair? A poisonous cocktail of feelings that makes him dizzy.

Fuck that guy. Fuck everyone. They don’t know what it’s like. They don’t understand the kind of situation he’s in. Trapped between a rock and a hard place. A noose around his neck slowly tightening.

Saburouta takes the nearest bar of chalk and chucks it at the wall as strong as he can; it breaks upon impact. He doesn’t feel better in the slightest.

\--

Eventually Saburouta comes to a sobering conclusion - if he can’t succeed cleanly, then he has to cheat. He isn’t sure how the idea has never come to him before, and he isn’t sure how exactly one can cheat when summoning demons, but… he plans to find out.

True cross won’t help him with this. He needs to do his own research. A scary thought. But not as scary as the alternative.

His first idea is to brush up on the history of exorcism. Surely in those early days, they lacked the kind of constraints that modern exorcists do, and their methods must have been a lot more, ah, _liberal_. His biggest interest is in any possible doppelganger institutions, and how they would have gone about summonings.

The world is big enough that the way the True Cross deems to do it can’t be the _only way_. There have to be methods that will work for a no-good-no-talent-loser like Saburouta.

And his interest bears fruit - he gets their names and allusions to their methods. Nothing concrete, but a good place to start. He’ll take it outside their field of view - scour other libraries and book shops and antiquaries for what he needs. It has to be out there somewhere.

It’s his only hope.

\--

It takes a while, but he studies up. Slowly, bit by bit, he gathers the books he needs and parses them. He was right about there being more ways to approach summoning that True Cross wants them to know about. He was also right about the morality of the less savoury books.

Where the more standard methods require only the blood of the caster, these require sacrifice and, in some cases, contract forming. He avoids the latter purely because he knows he can’t outsmart a demon and would get himself in more trouble than it’s worth. The former, although making him a bit squeamish, feels doable.

He’ll start here and see if he can make his way back to the ‘basics’.

Studying is now conducted mostly in his room where no one ever comes and thus can’t see his literature collection. He writes his own notes, redraws the new sigils (and how come these make more sense and stick with him so much better than anything up until now?) until he can recognise and draw them with confidence.

Saburouta has a list for which rituals to try and what he needs for them.

And then it’s _time_.

He’s been planning this for weeks now. Saburouta looks down at what he's created with a strange feeling of warmth in his chest.

A large summoning circle, drawn in chalk; elaborate lettering, carefully copied pictograms. Black candles lit on every peak of the twelve-pointed star. He takes a shuddering breath. This is just something he has to do to get where he wants to be. He knows he won’t feel bad about it in the end, even if he feels nervous now.

Saburouta brings his hand up slowly, muscles coiling in suspense, in… excitement? -

He brings it down, smashes the skull of the crow struggling in his grip with the butt of a large knife.

It falls still and quiet after a few last uncoordinated jerks. He angles the bird so that it’s blood spills onto the centre of the summoning circle. Some of it splashes onto his shoes. That’s fine, he’ll wipe it off later.

When the stream lessens to a dribble, he carves the bird open with awkward, unpractised motions- through the skin, through the fat, through the sinew and the muscle-, and pulls its entrails out in a gory, wet ribbon. Cuts the heart and lungs out, places them into the silver lipped bowl he took from home.

His hands are covered in blood. Some of it runs down his arms all the way to his rolled-up sleeves. The reality of what he’s doing washes over him like a high wave in the sea.

“It’s too late to back out now,” he mutters to himself.

He uncaps the bottle with shaking hands, staining it and the cap. Pours the medical-grade ethanol over the bowl’s contents. His eyes water from the vapours of gore and spirit.

The knife in his hands is coated in a sheen of blood, dripping sluggishly at the tip. It's mesmerising.

_He did that_.

A tiny, terrible voice at the back of his head urges him to lick the knife clean. He brings it up to his mouth, drags his tongue over the blade, from the handle, along the body, to the edge, in a single wide stripe.

It tastes like pennies and like the sputum he coughed up when he had pneumonia as a kid - thick, salty, umami, warm. He slides his tongue over his teeth, smearing blood over them. It’s... a taste he could get used to.

But that’s not why he’s here. He has a ritual to finish. He looks over to the book he’s been studying, open on the little podium he’d brought with him. Saburouta smiles to himself. Something about this rebellion, this blatant disrespect towards any and all established rules feels good.

He reads out the summoning passage as loud and clear as he can. (He tends to mumble, and it’s annoying to everyone he ever talks to. But then when they tell him to speak up, he starts worrying too much and stutters.)

Nothing happens. Maybe he’s said the words wrong - Latin is so hard, and he’s not that good at it. Well, he can read and write it okay-ish. But he can’t say the damn words out loud right.

Saburouta scowls at the summoning circle. Reads the passage again, focusing on pronunciation as hard as he can. Still nothing.

“Damn it!” he curses, kicks over the candles. They go out with a splatter of wax over the floor. Kicks the bowl, and sends the contents flying across the lot he’s in. The bowl wobbles with a metallic ringing noise.

So much for this being an easier way. He rubs his face in frustration, momentarily forgetting the blood on his hands and making a mess of his face.

He'll have to try this again. Until it _works_.

\--

It’s back to the drawing board now. In the library, he studies conventional summoning theory, refreshes his demonology knowledge. At home he sifts through the illegal books slowly, filling in the cracks of his knowledge, learning the things that truly bind demons to Assiah, what it takes to draw them out by _force_.

There’re so many aspects to a summoning that the typical exorcist doesn’t even know about. The circle isn’t always a circle, or even a set shape at all - sometimes it’s even an object -, and different types of demon have affinity for different shapes, languages. And these bonds aren’t always noticeable at first.

Also important is how the circle is created, blood being the most potent drawing tool, but, ah, it never really says it has to be all your blood, and apparently different animal’s blood can change the outcome of a summoning quite drastically, and so can various _additives_ to the blood.

It’s not the kind of stuff they’re taught at the academy… it’s better. Saburouta’s heart is soaring. His hopes rise - something will work for him as well. Eventually. He just has to keep trying.

\--

The third time Saburouta attempts a summoning, he gets it _right_. He’s been practicing for what feels like forever, and it’s _finally finally finally_ paying off.

The earth splits as if cut open by some unseen blade; the demon crawls out of the crack wailing, small and gnarly, its limbs unproportionally long and spider like. Its skin is thick and leathery, its teeth yellowed and blunt.

It looks around at first, as if confused and disoriented, but when its shiny black eyes land their gaze on Saburouta it hisses and spits at him like an angry cat, before noticing the silver bowl and devouring the offal within it with glee and nasty snarfing sounds.

Saburouta feels his eyes well up with happy tears as he watches it. This is his first successful summoning, five months after he’s started studying.

The little demon starts braying in an unholy little voice once it’s licked the bowl clean, not entirely unlike a cat asking to be fed.

“I know, I know, little guy,” Saburouta coos, “you must be so hungry. I’ll get you something more if you help me, alright?”

The demon sits down in a docile manner, seemingly understanding his words.

Saburouta feels his smile widen. Finally, he’s _getting somewhere_.

\--

Sometimes, things go above and beyond the usual _disappointments_.

It’s a mission. There're supposed to be four exorcists on it, but only two show up, Saburouta being one of them.

“It seems that they’ve forgotten about the mission,” Kubo, the other person present, says with an easy smile. Saburouta laughs nervously, feeling something twist in his chest. Ah, he’s had to deal with this exact scenario one too many times. He’s still marked a black sheep by the rest, an unlucky thing. Undesirable.

But Kubo doesn’t know that, he only transferred to the Tokyo branch earlier this week. He’s keen on making impressions and friends. Perfectly polite and friendly, as is usual with someone from a rural branch. Saburouta wonders how long he will last out like this.

It’s very unlikely that the others forgot. It’s... pretty hard to forget a mission like this. They just didn’t want to show up. Somewhat meanly, Saburouta ponders if Kubo is worried that it’s somehow about him.

(It probably isn’t.)

“Should we ask headquarters what to do?” Kubo asks, scratching behind his ear. Saburouta nods mutely. It would be very dangerous to try and go ahead with it as they are now.

“I saw a payphone a ways back down that street,” Saburouta offers, pointing in the direction he’d come from. They make their way over, and Kubo makes the call with the door open so that Saburouta can hear.

“Hello, this is Kubo and Toudou, calling from Edogawa district” Kubo says, once the other end picks up, “We were supposed to perform an exorcist here, but two of the people haven’t shown up,” he pauses as the person on the line says something, “Yeah, Oshiro and Noguchi. We’ve been waiting for a while now,” another pause, “no, yeah, we’re at the location already-” quiet ”- Yeah, we can hold a bit longer, thank you.”

Kubo covers the receiver with his palm and turns to Saburouta, “They’re looking if they can send someone here to substitute.”

“Ah, okay,” Saburouta says quietly, wringing his hands. They wait.

It’s _awkward_.

The headquarters gets back to them a few minutes later - they say there’s no one available but the mission is time sensitive, so they have to go in anyways, despite the fact that it’s _against protocol_. Kubo argues, and he argues rather well, but even a guy like him is powerless against desk jockeys.

“They said we’ll get hazard pay,” Kubo says with a wry smile after he’s replaced the speaker, “bunch of cunts, I say. They want us to die or what?”

“Not the first time this has happened,” Saburouta says, exasperated and anxious, “but this, ah, this is going to be _tough_.”

“At least we know what’s in there,” Kubo says, then he stops and thinks, “Hey, you’re training to get your Tamer’s meister now, right? I think that might be more useful this time since there’s no one to cover you if you go Aria.”

Saburouta feels heat crawl up his neck, “I, uhm, yes… but, ha, I’m not- I’m not too good at it yet.”

Kubo sighs, face twisting into a tired-worried sort of expression, “Well, Toudou, let’s do our best anyways,” then he puts on a brave little smile and places his hand on Saburouta’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, ”And if we survive, let’s go for a drink later.”

It goes bad, as it _always_ does.

There’s a fire- an explosion? - they hadn’t seen the demon coming, and there’s- there’s carnage, there’s property destruction and smoke everywhere. Kubo breaks his arm falling out of a second story window. Saburouta gets a nasty gash across his face and bruises all over his body from where the blast throws him back into a cabinet.

He manages to summon the demon from before that he’d made an agreement with, drawing the summoning circle with the blood spilling over his forehead.

He promises the thing a good feast and in return it helps Saburouta hold the target off until Kubo clambers back into the building and finishes it off with a few well-aimed shots.

Saburouta releases his summon and smears the circle before Kubo can see it. He’s running high off adrenaline. His knees feel weak.

“They better double the hazard pay,” Kubo says, doubling over with his good arm on his knee, the other hanging limp and bleeding by his side.

Saburouta laughs breathlessly. That would certainly be nice.

But as they head back to headquarters, the somewhat good mood of a successful mission wanes. Saburouta thinks of the two bastards who just decided to not show up. It’s _beyond childish_.

Saburouta’s so sick of getting injured when it could be prevented if other just _did their fucking jobs_. He’s so sick of getting fractures and aches and bouncing between bedrest and deskwork and field missions on an endless merry-go-round in addition to the stress of everything else going on in his life.

Oshiro and Noguchi won’t look him in the eye the day when he comes in for work in the office after three days of paid leave. Saburouta exaggerates his limp and makes sure to smile _extra brightly_ as he greets them, revels in the way they look guiltily away.

He hopes they choke; he hopes they _suffocate_ on that guilt, hopes they fall into a pit of starving hellhounds and get ripped to shreds.

But the best thing - that comes later! Haha, the _best_ thing is when their superior comes down to scold Saburouta and Kubo for going in and doing the mission. As if they’d made the choice.

It truly is the icing on the shitty cake.

“We were acting on the headquarters’ orders,” Kubo says, visibly frustrated, “we literally called them to ask what we should do, and they _told us_ _to go in_!”

“I haven’t heard anything about that,” the superior says, narrowing his eyes, “and anyways, that’s dangerous! We have protocols especially for times like these-”

Saburouta squeezes his eyes shut while the two argue back and forth about it. He just wants to go home. He hates arguments, hates it when people yell, it makes him uncomfortable, it puts him on edge- he flinches hard when the superior slams his hand down on the table to emphasize whatever he’s saying.

Saburouta’s heart races reflexively, and he just wants to curl up, make himself small and unthreatening. _For fuck’s sake_.

The superior leaves in a huff a little while later.

“God, can you believe this?” Kubo growls. Yes, Saburouta can believe it. “These desk jockeys are such assholes. Telling us to go and then writing us up for it?”

“Yeah,” Saburouta agrees. Most people here are kind of assholes, in all honesty. But he admires Kubo’s fire and willingness to cause problems to solve problems.

“I’ve never had issues like this before, what the hell,” Kubo says suddenly, and Saburouta winces. He has issues like this all the time, and he can’t help but feel like he’s dragged Kubo along for the ride somehow. Or is that thinking too highly of himself?

Saburouta could do everything by the book perfectly and still get fucked over for it. Saburouta wonders if Kubo will show up the next time he’s paired with Saburouta for a mission. Saburouta can’t really blame him if he doesn’t. This was his first mission in the Tokyo branch and, boy, what an impression it must make on his record.

“Ah, this is such a mess,” Kubo sighs, slumping against the wall. “So, Toudou, you up for those drinks? I really feel like I need a bottle or two.”

“I- ah- I was going to study-” Saburouta starts, but then notices the way Kubo’s expression falls, “but, haha I t-think I’d like to go for a drink with you. Maybe something to eat as well.”

Kubo smiles again, “alright, it’s a date then,” he says, clapping Saburouta on the shoulder (he flinches a little bit, and there’s an awkward split second pause), “Meet you when the shift ends?”

“Yeah,” Saburouta agrees with an awkward smile.

They go to a bar not far from the branch office and get far more drunk than Saburouta is comfortable with admitting. Honestly, he doesn’t even remember what happened- he’d been trying to keep Kubo’s pace which was, admittedly, a mistake.

He wakes up in Kubo’s apartment, on the couch, with a killer headache. He only knows it’s Kubo’s apartment because when he falls out of said couch with a groan, Kubo walks in to check on him and offers a shower and breakfast, both of which Saburouta timidly accepts.

“How are you feeling?” Kubo asks when Saburouta comes out from the bathroom, feeling refreshed but still very much hungover. “You were in quite a state by the end there.”

“Ah, I’m-” Saburouta starts, unsure how to answer, “I’m alive I guess.” Kubo gestures for him to sit down at the other end of the table where another plate is set.

“T-thank you,” Saburouta says awkwardly. It’s a simple omelette with rice and some pickled radish as a side dish.

“The radish was made by mother, you should try it,” Kubo says, “her recipe is the best.”

They eat in companionable silence. Or, well, it looks like it’s companionable to Kubo. Saburouta’s mind is racing with worry. The hole in his memories upsets him. He’s pretty sure he made a fool of himself and said a lot of embarrassing stuff. God, he hopes that Kubo still respects him, even a little bit.

“Y-you seem very fresh this morning,” Saburouta comments.

“Yeah, not to brag but I’m pretty good with my alcohol,” Kubo answers with a smile, “I also drank a bunch of water before going to bed. Tried to get you to drink some too, but you didn’t want to.”

That’s worrying. That’s _very_ worrying.

“Ah, I’m sorry… Kubo-san, w-was I being troublesome? I’m so sorry if I gave you a hard time...”

Kubo looks at him with a neutral kind of expression. Saburouta swears he can see pity in his eyes. “No, you were fine, Toudou. Perhaps you did end up drinking a little more than you should’ve, but that’s about it. No trouble at all.”

Why does Saburouta feel like Kubo’s omitting something? It’s right there, visible in his face and body language. Or is he being nice by pretending? Does he just want to calm Saburouta’s whirling and raging thoughts?

“Ah, t-that’s a relief,” Saburouta finds himself saying, and he notes that Kubo relaxes at the words. He tries not to think of the implications.

He helps Kubo clean up after breakfast despite the other’s protests, and then heads home. There’s no one to greet him at midday - everyone out at work or on errands. Saburouta relaxes somewhat at that - the quiet here is soothing. He doesn’t have any work today - he plans to spend the time studying.

\--

But he feels uneasy that night as the sun sets. Feels on edge, feels all jittery and wrong. Kubo is alright. Almost too nice, perhaps. But everyone else…

Saburouta thinks of Oshiro and Noguchi and every other colleague who’s ever skipped out on coming to a mission and thus caused problems for headquarters and Saburouta. He thinks of that superior who would not believe that Saburouta and Kubo had acted on orders and had written them up when they were just trying their best to do their jobs.

He thinks of every instance where people decide to make things harder for others. He thinks of all the time people have made things harder for him, be it knowingly or not.

His distress grows with these thoughts, and with it the directionless anger that’s taken over his soul and to stained it black.

Saburouta closes the book in front of him, no longer able to focus. His fingers itch to grab at something sharp. He wants to see blood, wants to hurt something, wants to feel in control and confident and violent.

But there’s nothing here _to_ hurt. Unless…

Saburouta closes the bathroom door behind him and double checks the locking mechanism. Just a little bit. Just this once. He needs to get rid of the feeling or he’ll go insane.

He slides the shaving razor across the skin of his thigh as he sits on the edge of the bathtub. It’s a single incision, shallow and shorter than the length of his fifth finger. It bleeds sluggishly, thick and red. He picks a drop up with his finger and brings it to his lips.

Metal. Salt. The flavour of blood. He really _is_ getting used to it.

Saburouta closes his eyes with a shuddering breath. He feels _a rush_. (What’s wrong with him?) The view of the cut is burnt into his mind. (Why is he like this?) The cut _stings_. (He will never be normal, he will never like everyone else, he’ll always be like this - dark and wrong and bad-)

But for a moment, Saburouta feels good. For a moment, he feels truly calm.

\--

Saburouta gets his Tamer meister that year, three months later. He passes on his first try, but it’s just by the skin of his teeth.

He’s managed to get the hang of normal summonings by now. The energy drain is noticeably larger than, ah, less-than-legal methods and he’s not necessarily good at it and can’t summon anything more threatening than a low-level hellhound, but that’s still enough to let him pass as a lower second class exorcist.

The instructor seems very pleasantly surprised and praises him.

“Toudou-kun, I didn’t know you had it in you!” he says, shaking his hand with a lot more fervour than warranted, “Why, you always struggled in class, I’m so pleased to see you found your inner Tamer!”

“Well, _repetitio est mater studiōrum_ , as they say,” Saburouta replies with a light smile, pulling his hand back from the uncomfortable handshake.

“So they do, but you’ve done something else altogether! You never summoned anything in class!” the instructor goes on, then looks about and leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “Does this mean that you’ll be using your family's top secret familiars, as they are so mythically called? Your brothers never did agree to show me. Perhaps you might be more easily persuaded?”

Saburouta laughs a bit joylessly, “I’m afraid I haven’t earned the right to use them just yet,” he questions if he ever will, “So I’ll have to leave you in suspense again...”

“Ah, what a shame,” the instructor tuts in dismay, “do give me a call when you get the chance!” he adds with a wink.

Then, he signs the certificate and hands it to Saburouta with a wide smile. “Celebrate well tonight, Toudou-kun, you’ve earned it.”

Saburouta bows as he accepts the document. It feels so real in his hands. To think he now has not one, but two meisters. He feels good about it now. There’s a warm fire of pride in his belly. Everything he’s doing is paying off for once.

And best of all - he can go home without feeling afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saburouta can have 1 (one) friend but that's about it 😔
> 
> I named the oc Kubo and now I keep associating him with bleach's mangaka...


	4. Seals & Barriers: I thought that it was getting better, but it seems to have gotten worse (now shadows cling to me).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is a rollercoaster. He keeps going up and coming down. There are important lessons and revelations along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains a graphic (wrist) injury and recovery after it.
> 
> Also! Someone makes a little cameo :D :D :D

“It is only natural that any Toudou have at least two meisters,” Raijin says, “Now that you’ve finally achieved that, you may start studying the family techniques, and if you actually manage to learn them well enough,” here he looks down at Saburouta with what can only be described as a destructive glare, “then you will also learn to work with the familiars. Is that clear?”

“Yes, father,” Saburouta answers. His initial joy at getting Tamer is fizzling out at record speeds. More studying. _Yay_!

He starts training the very next week. And now, he's been studying seals and barriers ever since he started the academy, and has gotten, well, decent enough at the basics of them, but - but the family techniques are _hard_. Like, it’s not just that the seals themselves are hard to draw and ridiculously complex - and oh, he needs to learn a _whole new writing script by the way_ \- but his family are _not_ sympathetic teachers.

Saburouta falls to his knees, panting and drenched in sweat. Waro looks at him with half-contempt, half-pity. All disappointment.

"God, that was painful to watch. You gotta build up your stamina to last through the initial drain," he says, scuffing the markings with his boot. The feeling of choking and being crushed leaves Saburouta immediately, he sags, resting his forehead against the floor. "It's a lot more bearable once it actually activates."

"H-how, haa, how do I, uh, do that?" Saburouta asks, squeezing his eyes shut as the sweat drips over them. Fuck, the room still feels so hot. These things are downright _painful_.

"You gotta just keep going till you get it, I guess," Waro says, disinterested, "I mean I never had as much issue with it as you do, so go figure."

Saburouta grits his teeth. Of course. He's never good enough for anything.

"And like, I even gave you the simplest one," Waro adds, and that stings. "There’s not much to do, keep practicing this until you can do it without passing out, yeah? I'll give you something harder then. Bye."

Waro leaves. Saburouta picks himself off the floor eventually, scowls at the seal he failed to activate.

He thinks about everything he's been studying in secret. The techniques he's not supposed to use because they're ' _dark_ ' and ' _unethical_ '.

Maybe he can use all that hard-earned knowledge to change this seal up a little bit… make it easier on himself to cast. If the initial drain is the worst, maybe he can work in an additional power source for it? Just something to take the load off.

...now there’s _a thought_.

Saburouta adjusts his glasses and runs his hand through his wet hair, slicking it back. He has research (and practice) to do… after a shower.

\--

Saburouta is not super smart or super strong. He's average at best, and so it always chafes terribly when he's compared to his prodigy brothers, his pioneer grandfather, his well-accomplished, renowned and, dare he say, _famous_ relatives.

Father isn't happy with how slow his training is going. There’s a constant pushing from him - to do more, to learn faster, to learn everything better. Saburouta is put on the spot pretty much every meal they have together, and it’s gotten to a point where he avoids meals with the family, using training as an excuse.

He doesn’t know how he avoids another bout of burn-out.

It’s a very fragile stand-still for a while. The pace is slow, but it’s still progress, and it’s much better than if he tries too hard and gets hospitalised for god knows how long again.

But then one night, father has too much to drink and-

Saburouta yelps as his back collides with the wall. He can just barely scuff the toes of his shoes against the floor as Raijin holds him up with the most tempestuous of expressions.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Raijin barks, breath reeking of alcohol and cigar smoke. He yanks Saburouta forwards, only to slam him against the wall again with a dull thud. “Four months, Saburouta! And what have you learned? Practically nothing! I thought you were over _this_ , -” he gestures to all of Saburouta, ”-but evidently not.” Raijin growls out the last sentence and-

And Saburouta is so _afraid_. He grips feebly at the hands holding him up, he feels weak and powerless and small and _endangered_. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but there’s a knot in his throat that won’t let him form words; a haze of panic settling over his head that won’t let him think. Blood is rushing in his ears that barely lets him hear.

“Well? Speak up, boy!” Raijin bellows and Saburouta flinches.

He looks around to- to his brothers, to his aunt- and they’re all turned away, pretending this isn’t happening- it’s not fair, it’s not fair!

(Saburouta feels tears sting at his eyes. Left alone to fend for himself. Cast away at the first doubts of his capabilities. Asked so much with so little given in return.)

“I-I,” he manages out, but his voice is tight and thin as a thread, “I’m doing my best.”

He sounds pathetic. He feels pathetic. He wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“No, you’re not,” Raijin snarls, “You’re slacking off. Do you want to know how I know? No one could be this bad at learning a few simple seals, Saburouta. You’re just a lazy little _worm_.”

The words hurt like a knife straight to the chest. Saburouta blinks furiously to keep his tears at bay. This will be so much worse if he starts crying.

“I’m getting better,” he chokes out, lip wobbling, “I’m getting better, I swear! Ask Waro, he can. He can tell you. I’m trying,” he sobs, involuntarily, and squeezes his eyes shut immediately after. _Fuck_! “I’ve been, I’ve been practicing every day as much as I can, I swear!”

He can’t breathe. He limbs feel numb and heavy, his heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest, he feels so fucking dizzy.

He’s scared to wake up in a hospital again. He can- he can smell the disinfectant, can feel the ghostly sensation of a needle prick-

Raijin lets him down with an irritated huff, Saburouta’s knees barely hold him up as he doubles over, hands on his knees. His eyes are still squeezed shut.

“I expect you to try harder from now on, Saburouta,” Raijin says.

Something in Saburouta wilts and dies. Raijin doesn’t understand. He never will. This is Saburouta’s life and he’ll always be chasing after milestones he can’t reach; he’ll always be giving his best and falling short anyway.

Saburouta nods stiffly, not trusting his voice to work right now.

Raijin retreats, and that makes him feel a little better, but what’s the point, really? Saburouta opens his eyes, and his vision is blurry with tears.

Father might not have beat him up this time, but he still feels like something is broken.

\--

Another mission is going _wrong_. Saburouta hides in a cove as he tries to tie his belt over his upper arm in a makeshift tourniquet.

His teammates have fucked off to who knows where and he’s alone and he’s bleeding hard. His entire right arm is a red mess. He tries to wench the belt harder, pin the artery to the bone. He has no idea if it’s working; no idea whether he’ll bleed out here and now.

He’s getting dizzy already. This is _not good_.

‘What the fuck happened?’ he despairs. It had seemed like for once, it would be okay. Everyone showed up and seemed in good shape. They’d gone in with a plan. And then…

They were ambushed. It was supposed to be one demon. But the truth is - there were two. They killed the first. The second wants revenge. Saburouta’s arm is a testament to that.

His hazy thoughts are cut short by the sound of footsteps. Not human ones, though. Thudding, heavy ones. A shadow stretches out along the floor, growing larger as the demon comes closer.

Saburouta goes still as a statue as the looming shape of the demon they’re exorcising comes into view. A little stupidly, he hopes it won’t see him. That it will pass by.

But - it’s sniffing at the trail of blood he’s left behind. And then it rears its head and looks right at him. Glowing eyes like pure fire, skin and fur black as pitch and shiny. Its muscles ripple as it turns to face him. All Saburouta can see are teeth and claws and-

His death.

Saburouta’s grip on the makeshift tourniquet loosens. It won’t matter in a second.

The demon steps forward, its shoulders just barely fitting within the cove- and then it stops with its muzzle right in front of Saburouta’s face. The sensation is just like being sniffed by a dog. Saburouta stares into the beast’s eyes and finds that they hold no aggression.

The demon seems to sneeze and then rears back, away from him with a- a strangely frustrated sort of growl. It eyes him with distrust, baring teeth.

It leans down to lick the bloodstain on the floor. Saburouta can’t help but get the feeling that… something is keeping the demon from disembowelling him right then and there. But what is it? Is it something he did? Is it a coincidence?

Finally, human footsteps, rushing in-!

The rest of his team manage to exorcise the demon as Saburouta stays sitting in his spot, shell-shocked and so deeply _confused_.

“Yikes,” Minato says as he gets a good look at Saburouta. Then, he turns around and yells “Doctor! We have wounded!”

Saburouta takes a good look at his wound again. A quite frankly terrible gash across his forearm. He can see bone deep in the bed of the wound if he focuses hard enough. But all he can think is, ‘How funny...’

To think he’s so damaged and fucked up that even demons don’t want him anymore. Saburouta finds himself laughing a little deliriously.

His teammates chalk it up to blood loss and shock.

\--

The hand injury requires surgery, because of course it does. The nerves, tendons and blood vessels require reconstruction. Even if it’s successful, there’s a possibility that he won’t have full function in his hand after this, even if he does his physiotherapy for however many months or years it might take.

The ER doctor explains all of this to him as they begin preparations as Saburouta sits on a gurney, already dressed in a hospital gown.

He looks down at the bandaged wound. They’d already cleaned it and given him an extra rabies shot, working under the pretence that Saburouta had gotten the injury from a wild dog.

“The surgery itself could take anywhere from eight hours to a whole day,” the doctor says, preparing the premedication, “but don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands.”

“Thank you,” Saburouta says. He’s wondering if his father will be mad. Wondering how much of the expenses this time around will be covered by True Cross and how much will come out of Saburouta’s pocket.

Though he doesn’t like the idea overall, he wonders if it would be easier if his hand had been ripped off. Could be a good enough excuse to be taken out of active duty. Guess he won’t find out this time around.

Well, there’s always other missions.

“Alright, so I’ve explained everything about the procedure. Do you have any more questions, Toudou-san?”

Saburouta shakes his head no.

“Alright, then just sign over here and then you can take your premedication and we’ll take care of the rest.”

It’s easy enough to follow the orders.

‘ _They’ll take care of the rest…_ ’ Saburouta thinks as his consciousness starts to slip, ‘ _that sounds so nice_.’

\--

The first week is arguably the worst. He has to take pain medication to keep the hand from hurting terribly, but the medication makes him feel all weird and sleepy and disinhibited. Not to mention that it gives him horrible constipation.

He’s not allowed to move it for now. And then when physiotherapy starts, he’ll have to work into it slowly to rebuild mobility and strength.

The scar is ugly, jagged and red where the surgeons couldn’t close it all the way. Takes up most of his lower arm. Every time the housekeeper helps Saburouta change his bandages, he stares at it in quiet contemplation.

What if he hadn’t thought to use a belt as a tourniquet? What if the bite had been deeper? What if the demon had disembowelled him?

“How are you feeling these days, Saburouta?” the housekeeper asks. It’s an unexpected question. How is he feeling?

“I’m not sure...” he answers truthfully, “the painkillers make everything feel weird. I think I’m just existing.”

The housekeeper frowns as she ties off the outer dressing. “I’m sure you’ll be fine when you stop having to take it.”

“What if I can’t use my hand anymore after this?” Saburouta asks, “Does that count as fine too?”

She doesn’t know how to answer that. Looks at him, visibly uncomfortable. Saburouta chuckles ruefully. Whatever.

“I’m just kidding, Aya-san,” he says with a smile, “It’ll heal right up, and I’ll be back to working soon enough.”

Her countenance changes, immediately growing warm as she smiles and says, “Yes, Saburouta, that’s the spirit! You’ll be back in shape in no time!”

Back in his room, Saburouta lifts the injured hand up. Only his wrist is bandaged anymore, his hand sort of just flops limply along with the movements. If he focuses really hard and tries his best, he can sort of even flex his fingers, but that hurts above what the painkiller can tamp down so he doesn’t do it often.

Can this really be saved? He supposes he’ll find out in the following months…

\--

And then the fated day comes. He comes in for his first day of physio.

“Hello, you must be Toudou Saburouta,” the person seated at the desk says, as she rises to her feet and stands beside her desk with a polite bow, “I’m doctor Itanagi, and I’m a physiotherapist.”

“H-hello, dr. Itanagi,” Saburouta says, awkwardly returning the bow to a respectful depth, “Please, take good care of me.”

She smiles and gestures for him to take a seat, which he does. “I understand you suffered an arm injury?” she asks.

Saburouta rolls the sleeve up and shows her the scar. Ugly, shiny thing, still tender despite the fact that the stitches were taken out over three weeks ago.

“May I?” she asks, gesturing towards the hand. Saburouta nods.

Her hands are warm as she takes his arm and inspects it. Saburouta looks at her shoes - comfortable looking slippers, the kind one sees most often in hospitals.

“Do you have a report of the surgery?” Itanagi asks, adjusting her hold to cradle his hand and staring intently at his palm.

“Ah, I- yes, I have it w-with me,” Saburouta chirps, “in my bag.”

“Very good, I’ll read it over. Can you flex your fingers for me? As much as you can,” she says. Saburouta tries, flexes them as hard as he can despite how it hurts to do it. The fingers twitch into a half-claw posture slowly. Dr. Itanagi hums.

“Alright, we need to determine our starting point with some basic mobility and strength tests and then I’ll teach you the exercises you should do for now after reading your file. Is that alright, Toudou-san?”

“Yes, t-that’s fine.” she lets go of his hand and it falls limply downwards. There’s a lot of work to be done.

\--

The exercises are… arduous, for lack of a better word. They hurt and he needs to take breaks in between to get through the sets. But the function is coming back, slowly. He documents it - learning to write with his other hand makes him feel like a pre-schooler learning basic fine motor control again, but. It’s not like he can just… not write anything anymore.

There’s a lot of adjustments. He’s getting better at dressing himself - can wear a button up again, even if it takes half an hour to do it up without help. He can eat with a knife and fork again, though the fork still often falls out of his grasp.

His grasp… is still weak, pathetically so. But dr. Itanagi praises him for his diligence and perseverance. And that helps Saburouta keep his chin up because his brothers have taken to joking about him being disabled, which is… ultimately cruel, but also expected of them.

It takes five months for him to regain function to a level he can do most daily activities without too much trouble.

So, of course, it’s five months later that his family decides to stoke the fire of the personal hell that is Saburouta’s life.

They have him start working in the Deep Keep.

\--

There’re things that are easy, and things that are hard about this new job of his.

Easy is getting up on time and coming in at 7 in the morning. Easy is fetching coffee for everyone from the cafe - there’s not too many people, so he can balance the drink holders with minimal issue. Easy is walking around with a long, long list and checking the seals to see if they’re still intact.

Hard is mopping the floors, because his weak hand tires quickly and aches and cramps when he forces it through the motions. Hard is writing documents, because he can’t currently write too well with either hand. Hard is dealing with his brothers and father and their derision.

“God, you call this floor clean?” Tsuguro asks as he comes out of his office.

Saburouta looks up at him with a frown, then at the corridor. It’s not like… perfectly done, but Tsuguro’s making it sound like Saburouta’s made the floor dirtier.

“Is it, ah, not good?” he asks, fearing the answer.

Tsuguro opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it with a heavy sigh, ”It’ll do, I guess. Can’t expect too much of you, bro. But maybe next time try and mop a little more neatly, yeah? It’s all streaky.”

Saburouta feels himself sag, “Yeah, alright.”

\--

A month after he’s started working in The Keep, Saburouta is cleared for return to active duty (well, the physiotherapist marks him as functional and a success at rehabilitation, which doesn’t mean the same thing as fully recovered at all – but the doctors of True Cross use it as a green light).

Splitting his days between deskwork and missions and playing errand boy in the Keep is quite demanding. And then - studying the family techniques just takes another bite out of his already limited free time. He’s up and about from early morning to late night, doing things for others or because others told him to, or because his family says he needs to.

Saburouta feels like he doesn’t have a say in anything. Like he has no agency at all. Like he’s a robot that just follows orders. The thoughts keep him up at night, don’t let him sleep.

One day, one of the exorcists he’s on a mission with remarks on his constitution, “Oh, Toudou, you’re so glum. What’s got you down?”

Saburouta shrugs as they make their trek up a hill.

“Awh, come on, don’t be like that. The stress practically rolls off of you!” the man says.

Saburouta turns to face him, smiles politely, “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Sure you are,” he chuckles, “you ever tried smoking? Could help you relax for a bit.”

“No, I haven’t,” Saburouta admits.

The man pulls a pack from his pocket and flicks it open, extending it out towards Saburouta, “Do you want to?”

Hesitantly, Saburouta agrees.

\--

He scrapes by, just barely, like always. Everything is a lot, but he can bear with it somehow. If he just doesn’t stop to think too much, if he just goes along at some set pace, it’s fine.

Grudgingly, he admits that that colleague had been right. Smoking helps. A few stolen minutes in an alley. The ritual of lighting the cigarette and smoking it. The nicotine. It all lowers his stress. Helps him cope.

He knows others can smell it on him with how they wrinkle their noses, but no one says anything or tells him off for it, so he just keeps doing it.

In the middle of a stressful shift, after a berating from his father or family, when he can’t sleep at night, when he feels like everything has bubbled up and all he wants to do is scream, when he feels so empty and alone and cold he doesn’t know what else to do.

It’s not healthy, it’s a band aid over a bleeding wound, it’s a crutch for a broken leg that hasn’t been reset. It’s the best he can do.

\--

Saburouta is sent to the Order’s demon farm to pick up their supply of Hobgoblin horn powder and Salamander teeth. Both are necessary for the brewing of the paints they use to draw the seals of The Keep. (He won’t be drawing or working any of the seals himself, though, errand boy that he is.)

He opens the fence gate carefully, looking around to see if he can spot anyone who works here. It’s just rocks and some plants and a little shack thing further off.

“Hello?” he calls out.

A head pops up from behind a bush. A lady looks at him, wide-eyed. Saburouta stills, unsure if he should go on or wait for her to say something.

She seems to snap out of her daze after a moment, “Oh, I’m sorry! Hi! Did you need something?” she comes out towards him. Saburouta notes he’s never seen her before. She’s stocky, short. Black hair, many birthmarks on her exposed arms and face.

“I’m Saburouta, here to pick up a package for Toudou...” he says, slow and soft. Ah, maybe that was too quiet. He hopes she heard him.

Her eyes light up in recognition after a moment of thought, “Oh, yes, I have it ready in the storage room. Come with me, Saburouta-san!”

He trails after her, careful to not brush up against anything. One of his steps is as wide as two of hers - and Saburouta’s not even that tall. She’s just _tiny_.

The storage room is in the shack. Packed with shelves which are packed with boxes, which are packed with bottles, little paper parcels, knick-knacks, baubles. Chains of herbs and little bits of demons hang from the ceiling, drying. The room smells like lavender and sulphur, freshly cut grass and ash. Saburouta breathes in deeply. It’s a strange combination, but… nice.

“It should be here somewhere, give me a moment,” the lady says as she pulls boxes from one shelf and stacks them in another after checking the labels, searching for the right one.

“Take your time, I’m, ah, not in a rush,” Saburouta says with a strained little smile she can’t see. Truth be told, he just doesn’t want to get back and be bossed around again - it’s tiring.

In an effort to alleviate some of the awkwardness he feels while standing in the doorway as she rummages through the shelves, he tries for a bit of small talk. “So… miss… you work here, yes? How is it, being surrounded by demons all the time?”

“It’s Yuri,” she says lightly, then chuckles, “and it’s not so bad. They’re sort of like people, just more likely to cause mischief.”

“Interesting point of view, Yuri-san. I, uhm- I always thought they were closer to animals,” Saburouta says a bit sheepishly, “but I guess I’ll take your word for it, seeing as you spend so much time with them. I’ve only fought them, though - I guess that’s not a good environment to get to know them, haha.”

Dammit, he’s rambling. ‘ _Shut up, Saburouta_ ,’ he scolds himself, ’ _She doesn’t care_.’

“Well, they’re a bit like animals too,” Yuri admits- and phew, she doesn’t sound irritated at all-, “We raise and breed them like animals, use them for resources like animals-” she doesn’t sound very happy as she says this “-but I’ve always tried to treat them like people. They have emotions and personalities. I can’t just ignore that.”

Saburouta pauses at her words. Her sincerity is surprising. He’s never met an exorcist that didn’t treat demons like mindless beasts. It’s strangely pleasant.

“Are they, ah, really that different from one another?” he asks carefully, like the question might bite. ” I’ve... never thought about it, Yuri-san.” Saburouta gets the feeling that if he does it right, he might learn a thing or two here and now.

Then, he feels something nudge at his leg. He looks down - at a rather large, curiously coloured hobgoblin. It grunts at him.

The lady turns around abruptly at the sound, “Oh, Dirty! What are you doing?”

The hobgoblin grunts again, grabbing at the hem of Saburouta’s coat and tugging. He stares down at it in barely hidden awe. “Does it, ah, want something?”

“Odd, he’s never been interested in a stranger before,” she says, eyeing the demon warily, “he’s a feisty one, only tolerates me because I feed him.”

It tugs at his coat more insistently, the grunt turning into a high-pitched trilling noise.

“Uhm, hello,” Saburouta says, looking down at it, feeling quite out of his element, “what is it?”

Dirty releases his coat, holds its arms out. “I think… he wants you to pick him up,” Yuri says slowly, as if she’s unsure. As if she doesn’t believe what she’s seeing.

Saburouta laughs, but it’s a sort of questioning thing. “Uhm, should I?” he asks, unsure. Yuri looks back at him, just as confused.

Dirty trills again, and okay, he’s doing this. Like, really. Saburouta lifts the hobgoblin into his arms gingerly. It’s heavier than it looks, and it doesn’t exactly look like a bag of feathers.

“Hello, Dirty,” Saburouta says somewhat shakily. The demon looks back at him with wide, unfocused eyes. The pupils are blown wide and round, the striking green of its irises but a thin ring by the eyelids.

It sniffs at his face cautiously, sending hot little puffs of air against his neck. Saburouta tries his best to not draw back, but the knowledge of its teeth is uncomfortable, to say the least. Its clawed hands hang onto his shoulders.

When done sniffing, it lets out a small beep-like sound and blinks at him.

Saburouta looks from the demon back at the lady - who’s now looking at them with a slightly _horrified_ expression. “He seems to like you,” she says cautiously, “but, uh, be careful, he can bite. I _never_ handle him without gloves.”

Saburouta eyes the demon cautiously.

“You... bite?” Saburouta asks in a low voice. It… beeps again, opens its mouth wide to show off its large, jagged teeth and a dark tongue that looks like sandpaper. Closes its mouth again and watches him with the same dead-eyed stare. Its tail whips about catching against his legs and arms. Saburouta gets the feeling that it’s stare is… expectant? “Oh, ah… what lovely teeth you have, Dirty.”

The demon huffs a hot breath over Saburouta’s face and starts wiggling in his grip, trying to climb onto his shoulder and - failing to get all limbs to sit on top of it, wobbling precariously.

Saburouta, anxious, adjusts his hold so that it’s half on his shoulder, half cradled in an arm… not entirely unlike a child. It beeps again, a slightly different tone. Its tail coils around his arm, not tightly, but he can feel the pressure of it through his sleeve.

“He doesn’t seem so feisty like this,” Saburouta says, addressing Yuri, who’s still watching with a confounded look.

“He’s acting odd today,” she says. Her forehead is scrunched in worry. “He never lets me hold him like that...” her lips purse in… is that jealousy he spots? Yes, indeed, Yuri is pouting as she eyes the demon.

He feels something bright and warm in his chest.

“Am I special somehow, Dirty?” he asks the demon, and it makes another quiet noise, nuzzling into his coat. Cute. Carefully, he uses his free hand to scratch underneath its jaw as if it was a cat.

This demon is so nice compared to the ones he summons. So quiet too. The ones Saburouta pulls up from Gehenna snarl and bark and scream, scratch at him with vehemence, fear in their beady little eyes.

Dirty leans into the scritches for a moment with a sound that’s quite similar to purring, before turning sharply and grabbing Saburouta’s finger between its teeth. Saburouta freezes.

Yuri steps forward immediately, “Dirty, no! Bad!”

Saburouta looks at her with barely hidden panic. That’s the hand he literally just got back into working order. It would seriously, ah, suck, to lose a finger now.

“Oh, Saburouta-san,” Yuri exclaims, wrings her hands together, ”don’t move, we’ll figure something out right away-”

Dirty bites down a little too hard. Its teeth are large and blunt, but there’s a chip in one of them that pricks Saburouta’s finger. It’s a tiny nick and hardly painful, but it’s obvious that Dirty smells blood in the way its whole body shudders and it growls, lips drawing back to reveal its gums and nostrils flaring.

“Dirty!” Yuri shouts when it's just about to-

but it stops with Saburouta’s hand held gently between its teeth.

“Dirty!” she shouts, more distressed, walking forwards, ready to get physical, “Down! Off him _now_!”

Dirty makes this… pained little noise, like it’s struggling. Then it releases Saburouta’s hand from its jaws and licks gently at the bleeding finger, whining as it looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

Saburouta eyes the demon with awe. What’s happening here? Yuri looks on, hands in mid-air but no longer moving, face now a picture of pure horror. “What the hell...” she says under her breath.

“He... didn’t mean to do that,” Saburouta says, soft and gentle. He’s not sure why he’s so sure of that. He’s not sure how he knows. Dirty looks at him from the corner of its eyes, beeping again, more pathetically, almost as if- almost like it’s saying sorry. Saburouta is at once reminded of the demon from before - the one that wouldn’t disembowel him, the one that backed off. Surely, this is a coincidence?

“He didn’t mean...” Yuri parrots weakly as she watches Dirty nurses at the pricked finger as if the blood isn’t driving it crazy... then, her eyes turn to Saburouta, and she looks so confused and surprised and… suspicious?

Saburouta finds himself stilling under her gaze. He is very uncomfortable right now.

“Should I, uhm, let him down?” he asks, trying to break the strange tension that’s settled over them.

Yuri shakes her head clear, before letting out a terse “Yeah”.

Dirty scuttles out of the way when put down but remains just close enough to keep watching Saburouta. And then he realises, with a strange drop in his stomach, that there’s actually more demons, all staring at him with beady eyes. “Uhm, Yuri-san?”

She follows his gaze to the door of the shed where a few dozen glowing eyes are watching.

"They've never acted like this," Yuri says, then turns to him sharply with narrowed eyes, "Saburouta-san, empty your pockets."

"P-pardon?" he asks, flustered at her authoritative tone.

"Are you carrying anything with you that might attract demons?" she asks.

Saburouta flushes as he reaches in his pocket and feels a vial- he had forgotten about that. He pulls it out gingerly. "This, maybe…"

Yuri eyes the vial with distrust, “What is that?”

“It’s for painting seals. I was, ah- I was doing some maintenance down in the keep before coming here and forgot about it,” Saburouta answers- “it has some ox blood in it, that could be what they sense...”

“That would certainly explain it,” Yuri says with a nod, then she seems to pause and stare at Saburouta rather intensely, “Oh! Now I remember, you said Toudou! You’re the seal and barrier specialist!”

Saburouta tries to not wince, “Well, me less so than my brothers and father...” he tastes something bitter at the back of his throat, “I’m still just learning the ropes, really.”

“Oh,” Yuri says, excitement dimming a little, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be an expert in no time, Saburouta-san!”

Saburouta nods and thanks her with a tight smile.

“Wait, your finger!” Yuri says suddenly, “we should clean that immediately, or you’ll get an infection!”

He’d almost forgotten about that, actually. Saburouta looks at the rivulets of blood, the way it’s smeared over his hand, in between his fingers. “I’ll be fine, it’s just a scratch,” he mumbles, holding his hand away from her to hide it.

“No, I insist! Come over here,” she chides, ushering him into the adjacent room. ”Let me just get the first aid kit.”

The room is messy and well lived in, so much so that Saburouta feels like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t. He feels so awkward. It would be easier if she had just told him to clean it at home.

Saburouta spots a typewriter on the table, along with a stack of papers, and his curiosity is piqued.

“Are you writing something?” he asks, and Yuri jolts at the question.

“I, heh, yes, actually,” she says, looking at him over her shoulder, “I’m writing my second demonology book.”

Saburouta feels his face go slack with awe. “ _Second_? Wow, but- but you’re so young!”

Yuri flushes a little, coming over with the first aid kit, “Yeah, well, I’ve just been trying to look at things from a different perspective, and there’s few better ways to do it than through educating people, so I just… went for it.”

“That’s amazing!” Saburouta exclaims, and immediately cringes internally at how loud, how emphatically he’d said it.

“Well, good to see at least someone react positively,” Yuri chuckles wryly, “Now, give me your hand.”

Yuri cleans the blood off his hand gently. Saburouta finds himself feeling strangely uneasy. He’s not used to people touching him. He doesn’t know how to act - he just tries keeping as still as possible while she works.

She turns his hand over, looking for any spots she might have missed, but then- then she brushes her fingertips over a scar that’s peeking out from under his sleeve.

Saburouta jerks his hand back reflexively. There’s a tense pause.

“…It’s okay,” Yuri replies, voice careful. She doesn’t ask anything, just holds her hands out and it takes Saburouta a moment to calm down. Why had he reacted like that? It’s just a scar. Gingerly, he holds his hand out so that she can disinfect the wound and just get this whole burning trash heap of an interaction over with.

“Are you interested in the book, Saburouta-san?” she asks after a moment, bless her for sensing his discomfort.

“I, uhm… yes?” he says because, yeah, he loves all demonology books, and could just read them forever.

“I have a copy of the first one I can give you,” she says, fitting a bandage over his fingers, “And there! All done.”

“Thank you,” he says and looks down at his hand. It tingles, making Saburouta frown.

“No problem,” she answers.

Yuri retrieves the package and the copy of the book. Saburouta cradles them against his chest protectively.

“Have a nice day, Saburouta-san,” she says as he’s leaving, “feel free to come again for a chat if you want to!”

Saburouta bows politely, “Thank you, you as well! And who knows, I just might.”

His smile is genuine but strained. He’d love to come back, but something about her… is too genuine, too open, too kind. Talking to her really brings out how… cruel and selfish all the people in his life are, and he’s not sure he can take being reminded that too often.

\--

Yuri’s demonology book is… eye-opening. She proposes that the tamer-demon relationship should be looked at less like a master and servant thing, and more like a partnership where both parties should gain something.

That’s a thought that festers at the back of his mind for _weeks_. The way that he does it… it’s painful for the demon – forcing them through an ill-fitting gate, unlike the way exorcists do it conventionally. How could he even the scales?

Well, the other end of the spectrum, where the demon is at an advantage in a relationship… is possession.

Saburouta taps his pen against the notebook thoughtfully. Could he figure out the middle ground between taming and possession? More so, could he use it?

He needs more information. He needs to experiment more. He’s terribly curious as to what he could do if he _figures this out_.

The question remains - where could he find the information he craves? He feels like he has no choice but to reach out to… someone, though he doesn’t know who just yet.

\--

Life works out in the _weirdest_ ways sometimes.

It’s another field mission, and they’re all split up, looking for the demon that’s been wandering around the town lately and causing a whole lot of grief and bodily harm.

Saburouta almost misses him. There’s a man at the mouth of the alley he’s in, and Saburouta sees horns and a tail a few seconds before they vanish.

“Stop right there!” he calls out in a surprisingly strong voice.

The man at the mouth of the alley turns around and looks at him, “Excuse me? Is something wrong?”

“Don’t pretend, demon,” Saburouta says, stepping closer, tamer paper in hand. He’s ready to summon hellhounds at a moment’s notice. “I saw the horns and tail. You can go down easy, or you can try and run.”

“But I’m not a demon,” the man says with a confused laugh. “Just who _are you_? What are you talking about?”

Saburouta ignores the denials and pricks his finger on the exorcist’s pin, smears it across the summoning circle, and calls forth a hellhound - black and flaming and growling lowly.

The man pauses as he eyes the demon, then lets out a scoff, “Oh, really? Come on, I thought I did a great impression!” Immediately, the man sprouts horns from his head and a long, hairy tail whips about behind him. A thick miasma oozes from him and settles like heavy smoke along the ground.

“What is your name, demon?” Saburouta asks, tensing up, ready to summon a barrier if the demon were to lunge.

“I told you, I’m not a demon,” he says with a grin. “These here,” he taps at the horns, “are just a little characteristic I picked up from a friend.”

“That doesn’t make sense- your body is obviously possessed!”

The man grins at that, and his teeth are large and sharp, “So it is! But that doesn’t mean I’m not in control~”

_Oh?_

“How?” Saburouta asks, hoping his interest isn’t too obvious. Is this it? Is this what he’s looking for?

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” he exclaims and lunges to swipe at Saburouta, who avoids the attack just barely.

He pulls out a holy water grenade and throws it. The man screeches as it burns him, and Saburouta uses the opportunity to cast a quick seal to trap him. The strain of activating it while also sustaining a summon damn near makes his vision white out, but he manages it. He has no choice.

Saburouta pants heavily as he watches the man’s form. Oh, he’s _angry_ now. “The thing is,” Saburouta says, breathy, “yeah, I would actually love to know-” pant “- and you’re going to _tell me_.”

The man snarls and thrashes against the invisible bindings keeping him in place, but the struggle is futile. “You’ll tire soon, you son of a bitch exorcist! I’ll kill you! I’ll eat your heart!”

“I’ll last long enough,” Saburouta says darkly. Then, he pulls a vial from his belt and begins drawing a seal.

“You know what this is?” he asks once the main lines are in place. There’s only silence in response. “I guess not. It’s not a well-known technique… and it’s not exactly accepted in most circles...” Saburouta chuckles weakly. More silence. “This here is a syphon - it will bleed you dry faster than I’ll get tired.”

He tilts his head to look at the man, who is now peering at him with a troubled frown.

“Tell me how you did it,” Saburouta says in a light tone, “I’ll let you go if you do, and kill you if you don’t.”

He’s losing energy faster than he likes. He’s really not at a level where he can do this stuff freely yet. Will he ever? It’s so frustrating, never being up to snuff. He hopes the man buys his bluff.

“I,” the man starts, still eyeing Saburouta like he’s looking for a crack in Saburouta’s armour, “ _fine_! I ate it! I ate that fucking demon! Now let me out!”

“You ate it?” Saburouta asks, just to make sure he didn’t hear it wrong. Is that even allowed?

“Yeah, I did,” the man growls, “Let. Me. Out.”

Saburouta nods, taking in the information. Then he whistles sharply as he releases the binding seal, signalling the hellhound to attack.

The demon latches onto the mean’s leg as he screams in pain. But his thrashing only makes the beast hold on tighter. Saburouta manages to procure a sample of the man's blood during the scuffle and smears it in the centre of the syphon. It activates with an ominous _whoosh_.

The effect is visible soon enough as the man’s skin turns ashy and he takes on a sickly sheen. Saburouta calls the hound off with another sharp whistle before ripping the summoning paper. The man falls down with a thud.

“You lying fuck,” he wheezes, body writhing in agony, “you’ll pay for this!”

Saburouta waits out the last of his struggles, breaks the syphon when the man has all but stopped moving. “Well, it might come to that, but what have I to lose at this point?” he asks, knowing he won’t get an answer.

Saburouta slumps over to sit. He’s tired. So tired. He’s gotten what he wanted, though. He removes his glasses briefly to rub at his face and run his hand through his hair, grinning.

This has gone much better than he could have expected. He’ll figure out something to write in his report and then… look into some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With each chapter we draw closer to complete bastard mode... but not yet...


	5. Doctor: A reprieve from all these terrible things, yet I remain anxious for I know they exist.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saburouta is granted a peaceful period in his life. He finds himself healing, growing, just feeling better about himself in general. But there's an undercurrent to it all... a fear that at any moment - everything might disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: chapter contains (non-explicit) sex 😳
> 
> Enter baby Homare... I love her... (and I also really like Makoto... in this house we enjoy some oc indulgence...)
> 
> This chapter isn't as dark as the others... I dare even call it somewhat fluffy...

Saburouta forms a new habit. It starts like an inconspicuous thing - he stops at an izakaya for a quick meal between missions, and the atmosphere is at once enchanting.

There's always been something about the simple people to Saburouta. How their worries differ so much from his own and those of everyone he knows.

Businessmen, all of them older than him, sharing drinks. Calm, but jovial. Graceful, but simple.

Saburouta sits down at the far end of the counter but watches them detachedly as he waits for the staff to have a free moment and wait on him.

One of the men seems to notice his attention.

"Hey, you! Stranger!" he calls out to Saburouta. "Don’t stand all the way over there and stare, come over here, join us for a glass!"

"Oh, are you sure?" Saburouta asks sheepishly, embarrassed at being caught, scratching at the back of his neck. He’s wary. In his experience, people don’t like being stared at.

"Yes, yes! Come over! Tell us about yourself - I've never seen you around before." The man is grinning, and red with intoxication, but decidedly happy. His companions seem to be in a similar mood.

Saburouta goes, albeit stiffly - it is only polite. Buys them all a round in a veiled attempt to get on their good side, and they buy him a serving of soba and seaweed salad, swearing by their honour that it's the best around and he _has to_ try it.

Saburouta talks about his business in town briefly - how it's a short assignment and he's only here for the night. The men listen attentively and talk about similar experiences of their own.

“Ah, I was working a job where I had to travel around all the time for a while too,” one of them says, “it really gets harder after a while though, never feeling quite at home. That’s why I settled down here, started a family. Best damn choice I ever made.”

“Cheers! May your wife stay beautiful and your children grow up smart and healthy!” one of the others says, and they all take a drink.

“What about you, Toudou?” the man next to him says with a nudge, “You got a girl? Kids? House?”

“Oh, I...” he starts, something in him pulling tight. He has none of that. He’s never had the time. He’s never had the drive. He lives with his family and has no social life. “Not yet...” he finishes, uncomfortable.

The man takes pity on him, “Well, there’s always time. You seem like a reliable kind of man, and you’re handsome. I’m sure you’ll find someone in no time!”

The theme of the conversation changes then, and they keep drinking and eating and talking.

Saburouta realises, a while later, that he's enjoying himself and doesn't want to leave. He never knew that human interaction could be… so simple. So carefree. He finds that he likes these men - whose names he doesn't even know - more than his colleagues and family combined. It’s a strange feeling.

He does leave eventually, and it feels like saying goodbye to old friends. The kind he's never had. A part of him hurts, thinking about everything he’s ever missed out on; but another is… content in a way he’s rarely ever been.

He could start stopping by at izakayas more often.

\--

Saburouta stays late in the office doing paperwork. It’s annoying - the report he wrote up and filed has gone missing just like that, and he has to do the whole thing over so that he doesn’t get in trouble.

He groans as his pen runs out of ink.

“God, you piece of shit,” he grumbles, glaring at it. The pen, predictably, doesn’t respond. But Saburouta didn’t bring an extra ink cartridge to swap the empty one out (he keeps his writing inks in a drawer at home), so he needs to get a different pen completely.

He’s not ready for what greets him in the supply closet.

“Jesus Christ, what is your problem? Don’t you know how to knock?” his colleague Kimura yells, shirtless and in a rather, uh, compromising position with one of the junior exorcists.

“This is the supply closet...” Saburouta says dumbly, because he really doesn’t know how else to respond.

“Yeah, so? What the fuck are you doing here so late, weirdo?” the man snarls with way more animosity than warranted. Saburouta tries to not flinch back, but his fight or flight reflex screams that he’s in danger.

“I, uh, I was writing my report, and ran out of ink,” Saburouta says awkwardly. The junior catches his gaze and- ah- she’s shirtless too, okay- he averts his gaze, feeling impossibly more awkward now. “I- I just need a pen,” he mumbles.

“God, for fuck’s sake, dude,” Kimura exclaims and throws the entire box of pens at him before stomping over and slamming the door shut.

Saburouta rubs his side where the box had impacted with a soft hiss of pain. Yeah, okay. This whole interaction was shit, even by his standards. Why didn’t he just shut the door and walk away like a normal person? Find a pen somewhere else?

“God, you’re so stupid,” he chides himself, bending down to pick up all the pens scattered on the floor, “Can’t you read the room? Why did you do that?”

He hears a moan from the other side of the door. Well, at least he didn’t ruin their mood completely. Saburouta pockets a few pens and leaves the rest in the box, putting it by the door. Then, he scurries back to his desk to finish that report and get the hell out of here.

It seems like Kimura and the junior are fine with pretending that the whole fiasco didn’t happen the next time he sees them at work, for which he is pretty grateful.

But then, he manages to walk in on Kimura again… with a different girl.

Kimura has just enough time to whip around and see him before Saburouta shuts the door without as much as a “Sorry”.

He half-sighs, half-whines. Well, _fuck_. What are the chances? Saburouta stalks back to his desk at a brisk pace, sits there looking at the tabletop blankly for a few minutes.

Well, if the guy wants to sleep around, that’s really up to him, but Saburouta just wishes he wouldn’t do it at work, or would at least go somewhere with a door that locks. It’s getting kind of awkward.

Saburouta manages to get his head back to work eventually. Today he’s helping the sorters out because one of them is sick. He’s done it before, so he doesn’t mind - it’s actually one of the things he likes helping out with. Evaluating cases is something he’s confident in. Determining the manpower and specialists necessary to work a mission has guidelines. The cases are usually detailed enough, so as long as he follows those, he does alright and doesn’t get in trouble.

Everything seems to go smoothly from then on, until after lunch, when Kimura asks him to “come join him for a smoke break”... which immediately sets Saburouta on edge.

They walk to one of the smoking spots not too far from the entrance to the main building, but far enough to be pretty private.

Kimura offers him a cigarette, and though it’s a brand that he hates, Saburouta takes it. He feels like he’ll need it for the following conversation.

“Toudou, about what you saw...” Kimura starts, low and serious, very unlike his usual way of speech. Like he’s trying too hard to be cool or intimidating or _something_.

“I’m sorry to walk in on you like that again,” Saburouta says with a placating smile, taking half a step back because Kimura’s standing too close and it’s making him uncomfortable, “though you should change your habits a bit. The workplace really isn’t the best place to mess around...”

“That’s not it, Toudou,” Kimura says, seemingly annoyed, stepping in closer than comfortable _again_ , “So you saw it, I can’t change that. But what I want is for you to keep quiet about it. Got it?” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp and uncalled for jab to Saburouta’s chest. _Ouch_.

Saburouta rubs the spot with a slight wince as he takes a drag. Just what is Kimura implying here? “Who would I tell, exactly?” They both know he has no friends. They both know he barely ever talks to anyone, let alone indulges in gossip.

Kimura seems to pause and draws back with a visibly uncomfortable expression. Then he drops his cigarette and grinds it with his heel, frown deepening, the annoyance coming back, “Hey, don’t try and be smart with me, Toudou! I’m your senior so show some respect.”

“I’m not trying to disrespect you, Kimura-san, I’m truly sorry if it came off that way,” Saburouta explains, trying to calm the man down, “I won’t tell anyone.”

But Saburouta can’t help but wonder - why the urgent need for privacy? Usually, the men are listing off their flings like they’re honours during breaks and in between action in missions. ‘Oh, I fucked so and so, she had a great ass,’; ‘I got her to blow me,’; ‘her tits felt so great-’ and other gross phrases and conversations that Saburouta tries as hard as he can to avoid.

He’s sure he’s heard Kimura talking like that as well, so what’s the big deal right now? Why is Kimura so keyed up over Saburouta’s silence?

The answer comes to Saburouta when Kimura lifts his hand to run it through his hair and a ring on his ring finger catches light from the streetlamps.

“Ah, you… you weren’t just messing around, were you?” Saburouta asks, eyes widening. Kimura freezes, his frown turning into a scowl. It only serves to strengthen Saburouta’s hunch, “Kimura-san, were you cheating?”

There’s a tense pause. “That’s none of your business, Toudou,” Kimura says, looking decidedly angry.

Saburouta swallows, unable to decide between whether to backpedal or push forwards.

“Do not tell anyone,” Kimura growls, stepping even closer, crowding Saburouta against the wall in an obvious attempt to bully him into compliance. His aggression is so uncalled for, when Saburouta really could not give less of a fuck about who he screws around with and doesn’t have anyone to gossip to.

“Or what?” he asks, not thinking it through, staring straight into Kimura’s eyes.

The other man seems to freeze at the question.

“I’m asking you - or what?” Saburouta repeats, at once exhilarated and horrified at his own boldness. He’s sick and tired of everyone’s attitude, sick of their bullying, of their looking down on him. That frustration, that anger, it’s all coming up to the forefront of his mind, further emboldening him. His next words drip with contempt, “What will you do if I tell on you, Kimura-san?”

“I- I’m gonna-” Kimura starts, but Saburouta cuts him off rather rudely-

“Better think about it hard and make it worse than what happens to you if people find out you’re a filthy cheat,” Saburouta sneers, ”Say, which girl should I tell first? Your wife? Or is it spouse? I do wonder if she’ll want to stay with you after something like this.”

He’s never talked to a colleague like this. He feels rude right now. But he also feels like his irritation is justified. Kimura opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish, obviously speechless at Saburouta’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

“What’s that? Nothing to say?” Saburouta asks derisively.

Kimura grits his teeth, “What do you want?”

Saburouta laughs, “Ah, why the sudden want to compromise? You were so threatening a minute ago. What do I want, you ask…? Many things, but anything coming from you would be rotten... So, how about a little respect?”

Kimura’s face scrunches in confusion.

”Respect, Kimura-san, you know what it is. How about you try talking before threatening a colleague over your own crimes? We’re supposed to work together and communicate,” Saburouta sneers, pushes him backwards slightly with a firm palm to the chest. Kimura steps back obediently. Saburouta feels… like he’s never felt before.

“I mean- _‘Toudou-san, I know that you walked in on me with two different women, but please don’t tell my wife’_ \- is that- is that so terribly hard to ask?” Saburouta continues, voice rising in pitch, then eyes Kimura again, “Do you think I’m unreasonable or something? Or do you behave like this with everyone? No manners, no respect - you’re an exorcist, for fuck’s sake.”

Kimura’s red in the face now. Good. Let him feel _some_ shame.

“I _should_ report you,” Saburouta says coldly. Oh, something’s come over him, he can’t seem to _stop_ , “I don’t think you’re cut out for this job and the way you act just confirms it. Not only are you sleazy and immoral, but also irresponsible! I really don’t think that’s the kind of person we can trust to keep people safe from demons.”

God, just who is he right now? He’s talking loud and clear and not stammering. He’s… attacking someone verbally. Saburouta feels like his skin is about to peel right off.

“T-todou-san, no-” Kimura says, looking very small compared to how he was just a little bit ago, “wait, please. Please don’t. Don’t report me. Don’t tell my wife. It was, you see, a one-time thing. I-I mean a two-time thing. I’m sorry you had to see that, I won’t do it again. I’m sorry I overreacted. I was worried and I got too heated. Please, understand my situation.”

Saburouta stares at Kimura’s crumpled face blankly. His backpedalling and grovelling… is ugly. Is this what he looks like from the outside? Is this what he looks like to his family? He feels _ill_.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Saburouta asks in a cruel sort of tone. “I think a little disciplinary action will do you nicely. It _builds character_ , Kimura-san.”

“No, please, I-” Kimura says, hands raised in- it’s not supplication, but it’s close enough to look the same- “ I can’t have that on my record. Toudou-san… Please, I’ll do anything.”

This only proves Saburouta’s point further. The order is full of scum like Kimura.

“As I said, the only thing I want from you, Kimura-san,” Saburouta enunciates, “is some _respect_. You have nothing else of worth to offer.”

“I… I-yes, of course,” Kimura says, “Y-you’re a great colleague, Toudou, I mean, Toudou-san, always a pleasure to work with. I respect you deeply despite you being my junior.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence where neither of them really knows what to do next. Saburouta finds Kimura’s panicked mess of speech funny and his own anger fading out. Instead there is a growing apprehension for what’s just happened here.

“Well,” Saburouta says, voice back to his usual soft and quiet tone, “that was, uhm… Glad we could talk it out, Kimura-san.”

Kimura nods with the most awkward smile ever, wringing his hands nervously. Saburouta finishes his cigarette in silence and they part ways quietly.

He makes his way to the nearest restroom and locks the door.

God, what was that just now? He eyes himself in the mirror - wide eyed and a little dishevelled where he’d run his hands through his hair. His glasses are askew. His cheeks are flushed. His hands are shaking - and not from the nicotine.

Where had that come from? Had he really just spoken to a colleague like that? The confidence and the contempt, the quick wits and the slyness... He feels as if some spirit is departing from his body after possessing it briefly.

‘Who are you?’ he mouths at the mirror reflection.

\--

One day, Saburouta’s dad announces that he’s arranged a marriage for Saburouta. It’s non-negotiable. It’s _inevitable_. It’s in two weeks.

Saburouta absorbs the information slowly, trapped between surprise and resignation. He clenches his fists tightly - it’s just another choice that’s been taken away from him. He can’t even pick who to live with for the rest of his life?

Then, he releases them, letting the tension trapped in his body out. Would he really find anyone who would want him if father didn’t intervene? No - he’d probably die alone after living like a hermit to the bitter end.

“I understand,” Saburouta answers with a polite nod, “thank you.”

\--

The first time he meets his soon-to-be wife, Saburouta isn’t sure whether he’s impressed in a positive way or a negative one. She’s... _cold_. Pretty and well educated, from a good family, but head-strong and obviously _very independent_. He worries for how they might come to clash.

“It’s just business, Saburouta-san,” she says, smiling with only her mouth as she bows in greeting. Saburouta returns the gesture, looking at her in a worried way. “Don’t expect me to wait on you and clean up after you. We’ll live together and be married in name, but that’s about it. We’ll both go about our lives mostly as usual.”

“I understand, Makoto-san,” he says gently, “I’m sure we’ll make it work just fine.”

She nods in assent, pleased with his reaction, “Oh, and we’ll be living in an apartment in Shinjuku, not here,” she sniffs, eyeing the ancient halls of the Toudou residence with distaste. She then levels him with a look that just challenges him to say something, “If that’s alright with you, husband-to-be.”

Living away from his family? Oh, yeah, Saburouta’s alright with that. More than so, in fact. God, suddenly he can’t wait to get hitched and _out of this place_.

“I don’t mind,” Saburouta says with a genuine smile and a genuine laugh, “I’ve always thought Shinjuku is a lovely place.”

\--

For something that was not his choice and despite the way it binds him to another person indefinitely, marriage gives Saburouta an unprecedented feeling of freedom.

He’s not sure if it’s the distance from his family of the change of scenery that does it, but… he feels strangely good about life - enjoys coming home and waking up in the morning. His sleeping has improved greatly, and so has his overall health.

He finds himself being more outgoing at work, talking to his colleagues and not feeling guilty about it, and- and they seem to be warming up to him too. Why, a junior even comes and sits with him during lunch once in a while, and they have _small talk_. It’s like a whole different life compared to before.

(Well, except for when he’s working in The Keep. There he's still quiet and small, speaking only if spoken to, following orders obediently, trying to not draw attention to himself. His father and brothers seem to grow colder with him, but perhaps... less mean, if that’s the right word to use. It’s strange, but the growing distance between them feels soothing.)

And Saburouta gets along with Makoto, _his_ _wife_ , so much better than he ever could have hoped to. The initial fear has faded away - she’s actually quite nice, just blunt about it. Very proactive, taking any and all problems on fearlessly and boldly.

Makoto doesn’t whine. Makoto doesn’t beat around the bush; she says what she means and means what she says. If she has an issue with Saburouta, she says it outright and sits him down to work through it with the kind of efficacy only a seasoned business woman can possess.

Needless to say, they don’t fight. Saburouta can’t help but admire her drive and agency; and finds himself - not jealous, but… driven? Motivated? He’s not sure what the feeling is, but he longs to stand at her level, meet her half-way.

Living with her is easy. Everything is in its place, their spaces clearly defined. They each have their own private room that the other doesn’t invade without need or permission. The shared spaces - the bathroom, kitchen and living room - they take care of together. There’s a whiteboard in the kitchen, with the chores written down and evenly divided.

One week she’ll clean and do the laundry and take out the trash, and Saburouta will take care of the groceries and cooking. The other week, they’ll switch. It feels less like being married and more like having a roommate that you sometimes talk to and eat meals with.

Makoto is a career woman. Out of the house by dawn, back in the late evening, independent both in personality and in finances. Saburouta pulls his own weight as well with his double job as an exorcist and an officer of the Deep Keep. They both have plenty of funds left over after paying rent to indulge in other things.

Some evenings, Makoto will practice playing the violin and Saburouta will sit and watch her hands move over the instrument, enraptured; and then he’ll applaud and shout praises when she finishes and she’ll smile at him, satisfied and happy.

Of course, they put on a bit of an act in front of their families. She’ll hang off his elbow and talk all sweet and cute, say nice things about him in front of his brothers and father, because… well, Saburouta has never told her, but he gets the feeling she knows how _strained_ the relationship between him and his family is. In return, he dotes on her and is a first-rate gentleman - opens doors, pulls out chairs for her, acts as if his whole life and being revolve around her.

(And she loves teasing him about it whenever they leave a function - jokes about the strength of their ‘love’ that they both laugh at. Some days Saburouta even thinks that he wouldn’t mind falling in love with her, and perhaps Makoto even feels the same, but they’re good as they are. No need to fix something that isn’t broken.)

Overall, marital life is a nice little symbiosis. An interaction between the best parts of them (well, he doesn’t know if these are her best parts, but his? definitely). He _actually enjoys_ her company and conversation, and this whole thing has him wanting to live, really live, for the first time in what feels like his entire life.

It has to be the best thing that Saburouta has going for him.

\--

Saburouta decides to pursue his third meister by himself. There was a brief moment where he’d wanted to be a doctor as a kid, but then he’d realised that it entails blood and had dropped the idea. Ah, he used to be so scared of blood and of violence and of getting hurt.

Well, he’s not scared of all that anymore, so the thought returns and on a whim he applies to the study program one day after his field missions.

Studying is a lot more pleasant this time around. He didn’t pick the rush course, so the pace is a lot easier to keep up with. He can still breathe. He doesn’t feel smothered by the slews of words and the assignments and even the practical classes go more or less alright. In short, it’s completely different from _before,_ and he is continuously in awe of it. Of how easily it all comes this time around.

(A part of him is bitter and angry at ‘the before’, of how he’d been all but pushed into a corner, the ultimatum of passing like a noose around his neck. Oh, how that looming thought had tainted everything he learned, how it had poisoned and killed his joy and passion. But not this time. Not now.)

Saburouta comes home with a good mark on his last test. Not just a passing grade, not just-above-average, but a really, truly good grade. The kind of grade that gets a little ‘Good job!’ written in the corner next to the mark on the test paper. He can’t help the smile on his face - it just doesn’t seem to want to leave.

“Did something good happen?” Makoto asks from where she’s lounging on the sofa, watching TV. “You’re glowing, Saburouta.”

Something anxious unfurls in his chest. Grades… he’s always despised talking about them at home. But then, that was with his family, who wanted nothing less than perfection from him. Makoto… she’s safe. She’s not like them. “It’s a little silly…” he mumbles as he walks over. He feels his cheeks heat up. “I got a really good grade on my test…”

Makoto smiles back at him, “Oh, lovely! Do you want to celebrate?”

Such a thought had never occurred to Saburouta. “Ahh… should I?” he asks, nervous. A little, tiny part of him wants to. The bigger, more serious part of him thinks that it’s stupid to celebrate something that should technically be the _norm_.

“I think you should,” Makoto says with a light laugh. She’s in a nice, relaxed mood this evening, and Saburouta can’t help but be infected by it. “Let’s go to that izakaya by the park! Get some soba and drink something fancy.”

Saburouta can’t suppress the wide smile that overtakes his face. “I- I would love that.”

“Awesome,” Makoto says, rising from the couch, “I’ll go get dressed, you change into something more comfortable too, and then we’ll go. I’ll treat you!”

“Ah, you don’t have to do that much,” Saburouta says, flustered.

“No arguing! I made up my mind,” She says sternly, “now go, scoot!”

“Thank you,” Saburouta says gently, quietly, returning her smile before he goes to change. Surely, this much is fine? He isn’t overreaching or becoming too complacent. He’s just… enjoying the little things.

\--

Saburouta thinks that for him, all roads lead to hell. Then, he snuffs the cigarette and gets to work.

This is a long-planned thing. A ritual years in the making, in the researching, in the perfecting. Ever since that night when he first met the man who had eaten a demon. God… the thought has haunted Saburouta all these years. And, yes he’s been relaxing and taking it a lot easier since marriage, but he hasn’t stopped his explorations of the dark arts.

What Makoto doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

He’s killed so many crows, cats, dogs, _whatevers_. Summoned tens of demons. They’re beautiful, they’re deadly, they rage inside the vice grip of magic that keeps them tethered to him, doing his bidding unwillingly.

They’ve served him well in his career as an exorcist and in his studies. But Saburouta finally knows what he needs to do.

And those tiny, non-sapient things... they’re just not _adequate_.

 _This_ demon possesses the still-warm corpse of a man who won’t be missed by anyone, stares up from its supine position with glowing, _intelligent_ yellow eyes.

Saburouta cries with joy as he kneels next to it, right wrist still bleeding, staining everything red; smushes the thing’s cheeks with a soft coo, “God, you’re perfect. You’re just what I wanted.”

The thing gargles back at him through a slit larynx. Raises one hand to grab at his wrist. Mouths something, not that he cares to try and decipher it.

Saburouta straddles its torso in a single fluid motion, holding a butcher’s knife aloft and sporting a pitying, serene expression.

“Thank you for volunteering,” he says, leaning down to peer into its haunting eyes once more, “I promise you won’t go to waste.”

It writhes weakly under him, discontent, but the movement is sluggish and feeble. Saburouta shushes it with a hand gently caressing over its cheek, down its throat through the blood.

It stills and huffs through its nose, closing its eyes and seeming to accept its fate.

Saburouta smiles with loving adoration, slits its belly open in a single, clean incision and _digs in_.

\--

For a while, it feels good. Really good. It’s like he’s electrified and high on morphine all at once - the world buzzes and spins in bright colours, strong smells, strange and wonderful noises.

Saburouta feels high. He feels good. He feels all-powerful, irresistible and untouchable, like he could take on anything and anyone, even- hahah- even his father!

He stumbles as he walks along the street. All the senses are overwhelming and loud - his brain fizzes as it works through the stimuli. But he wouldn’t give this up. God, he doesn’t want to give this feeling up ever.

But then-

There's an ache in his side. A pain like tearing, like expanding to the point of exploding.

Saburouta’s first thought is that it’s another fucking ulcer. Though the memory is hazy, it feels familiar. He leans heavily against the railing of some stairs, unsteady on his feet. It’s night-time, people must assume he’s drunk for this.

The pain comes again, like a horrible wave. Saburouta feels something clawing up his throat, tries his best to keep it down.

By the third wave he’s covered in cold sweat and nauseous. His stomach is writhing inside him. He can’t- he can’t do this-

Saburouta throws up. It’s absolutely disgusting. Half-chewed chunks of raw meat and stomach acid, flakes of black, curdled blood. The pain stops immediately.

But the demon he’d swallowed down, Saburouta realises with a cold horror and a hot frustration, is _gone_.

\--

Saburouta passes the Doctor’s exam on his first try. The instructor commends him for his _excellent_ performance. He accepts the certificate with tears in his eyes.

He’s never felt so good about passing an exam before. He’s never felt so proud of himself.

“T-thank you,” he says in a wet little voice, tilting his glasses and wiping at his eyes somewhat embarrassingly as he holds the document.

“Aw, don’t cry, Toudou-kun!” the instructor says kindly, “I’m so happy to see you now! Oh, I remember in the academy - I never knew what to make of you. At some point I even thought you might not graduate. You’re so different from your brothers!” she leans forwards, holding his wrist in a warm, motherly grip, “But look at you now! You have three meisters! And to think you’re going to be recertified as a middle second class exorcist! Ah, I’m so proud!”

Saburouta bows deeply, thanking her profusely for the kind words. He can’t express what he feels in that moment in any other way. This… this strange happiness, this complete exhilaration - it feels as if the world is full of colours and life.

He can’t wait to go home and tell Makoto the good news!

\--

The exorcist promotion ceremony happens once a year. It’s the kind of big thing that everyone and their grandmother wants to go to. To scout out the new talent; to see who’s pulling up and ahead.

It goes like this - every single person promoted is called to the podium by the branch director Mephisto Pheles and granted their new title. From lower second class all the way up to upper first class, and sometimes even Arc Knight.

Saburouta is nervous. He’s never done this before. When he got his exorcist’s licence as a lower second class exorcist, he didn’t actually show up for the ceremony because he was in the hospital recovering from that perforated ulcer.

His hands are cold, wet and shaking terribly. His heart is thudding in his ears. Sir Pheles is calling all the lower class exorcists now, one by one, and when he’s done - well, then at some point Saburouta will have to go up there and shake his hand and. God. The idea has him physically nauseous. What if he trips and falls and makes a fool of himself? He couldn’t stand it, not one bit.

He tries to focus on the ceremony, to look at all the new additions to the Order’s ranks, but it’s hard to hear Sir Pheles with the way his ears ring from nerves.

“-udou Saburouta! Promoted to middle second class!” Sir Pheles’ voice booms over the audience.

Saburouta freezes up. Oh no. Oh fuck. He can’t do this. He feels panic rising.

“Go already!” Waro growls with a rough shove. Saburouta stumbles forwards, out into the open. Usually, he’d be upset with Waro shoving him like that, but it’s just the thing he needed to force him out of his stupor this time.

Saburouta walks up the podium carefully, knees shaking. Everyone is watching. Everyone can see.

He bows at Sir Pheles deeply - more a reflex reaction than anything. Sir Pheles smiles his lopsided little smile at him, holding the exorcist’s pin aloft. Saburouta steps forwards closer so that the man can pin it to his breast.

Leaning in close, Sir Pheles wrinkles his nose a little as his fingers secure the pin deftly.

“My my, you reek more of demons than a tamer has any right to. What are you up to, Toudou-kun?” his voice is low and teasing. Like Sir Pheles is saying some joke. Saburouta feels his heart leap into his throat.

“P-pardon?” he asks, confused; but Sir Pheles has already withdrawn and turned to face the masses again. The statement hangs heavily in the air. Saburouta shakes his head and starts the walk back to his family where they stand at the front of the crowd.

It’s official! He’s a middle second class exorcist now! Saburouta feels a shaky smile crawling onto his face.

As he walks up to his father and brothers, Raijin looks down at the pin with cold disdain. “Thank God you could at least do this much, Saburouta,” he says.

 _And_ \- the smile vanishes from Saburouta’s face as if it was never there to begin with. Something old and cold and sharp stabs into his heart unexpectedly. Oh, right. He’s the problem child, never satisfactory. How did he forget that? Makoto’s made him soft…

He scoots past the three, standing behind them, obscured from view. Saburouta stares burning holes into his father’s back. ‘ _The least_ you _could do is go to hell,_ ’ he thinks.

\--

One day a few years down the line he comes home and Makoto is there, sitting on the couch with a wine glass and a magazine. In her underwear.

Saburouta looks away. He’s seen her fully dressed and he’s seen her in her pyjamas, but never like this. Did she lose track of time and not realise he was coming home soon? He kind of feels like he's intruding on her private time.

“Hi, I’m home,” he says, facing the clothing rack as he hangs his coat and slides into the house slippers. Announcing himself so she could perhaps... go and put something on.

“Oh, good. I’ve been waiting for you, Saburouta,” she says. He hears her set the magazine and glass down on the coffee table. “Come on, look at me,” she cajoles.

Saburouta turns his gaze to her, feeling his cheeks start to burn. Her nudity perturbs him, unsettles him. Black and old-rose lace hide the most intimate parts of her, but her ankles, knees, hips and shoulders are painfully bare. Her skin is stark against the upholstery of the couch.

Then, Makoto stands up slowly, sinuously, and walks towards him in confident strides. The movement of her hips is tantalising. Saburouta has seen women and men naked, many times and in many different contexts. But he's never seen Makoto like this. What is this? What is he supposed to do?

“Saburouta,” she says once she’s directly in front of him. Her face is calculating, searching. What is she searching for? What could she find in him?

Saburouta keeps his eyes glued to hers, too nervous to look at the rest of her. His name on her lips sounds different than usual. “I want a child…" she swallows, gathering herself - finally, a hint of her own nervousness showing -, "Let’s have sex.”

“Oh, uh,” he stammers. He really doesn’t know how to react to this. He’s never… done _that_ before.

“Come, put your hands on my hips and kiss me,” she says encouragingly, pulling him in closer by his tie. At first he doesn’t dare touch her, as if this is a strange dream or test. But she holds him by the wrist and guides his hand to her waist, and he goes _willingly_.

Her body is soft, malleable under his fingers. He has a hard time believing that she’s letting him touch her. They’ve been married what - six years now? He’s never touched her like this. He’s kissed her, occasionally, for show in front of others, but never like this.

She takes charge, she’s good at that. Can sense his incompetence and hesitance, tells him what to do, how and when.

They fuck on his bed. He cums way too fast.

She’s nice enough about it, though visibly off-put. Settles over him, her thighs bracketing his head, and- there’s just something about being trapped under her like this. Something about his lack of control that feels good.

“Use your mouth, Saburouta,” she says, curling her fingers in his hair, and he complies.

\--

Saburouta stands by the hospital bed where his wife lies, cradling their new-born child. Makoto looks on with a tired smile, her hand bunching the fabric of his shirt in a loose grip.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Makoto asks. She’s exhausted, a sheen of sweat drying on her skin, hair sticking to her forehead. The doctors just gave her another dose of analgesic, so she’s doing better. Labour was uncomplicated, but long. Sixteen hours from start to end. The contractions had started in the middle of the night, and the daylight has come and gone since then.

Saburouta smiles back at her, wide, toothy and mirthful, “She’s the best thing ever. You did so well, dear!” Homare sleeps soundly, tiny and pink and so delicate. She’d cried terribly during the weighing and measuring, but had quieted as soon as they’d given her to Makoto to hold.

“I can hardly believe it… after these nine months, It’s as if I didn’t understand it until now,” Makoto mumbles, looking at Homare’s swathed form in Saburouta’s arms. “We’re parents, Saburouta. Isn’t it amazing?”

Saburouta steps closer, gently placing the babe back in Makoto’s arms, “We are.” He takes a strand of Makoto’s hair and tucks it behind her ear. He smiles at her warmly. “And we’ll do right by her, alright? She’ll grow up just fine.”

“Yes,” Makoto agrees. Homare shifts in her sleep, inching closer to Makoto’s bosom with a small huff. “Ah, what a cute face! She definitely gets it from me.”

Saburouta chuckles as he smiles down at the both of them, hands braced against the edge of the hospital bed so he can lean in closer, “Yes, she does. But! - she has my eyes.”

There’s something there - beneath happiness. Some darker emotion that he can’t put into words. A sense of omen.

He can’t help but feel like it’s a mistake. Like he’s living on borrowed time with things he shouldn’t have. Fate must have something in the works if she’s given him a healthy child. Really, he’s been happy and satisfied for… how long now? It can’t possibly last, not for him.

Homare opens her eyes sleepily and shifts in Makoto’s arms again. Makoto laughs heartily, “Gosh, she’s so energetic!”

“Yes, she is,” Saburouta agrees, reaching out and touching a finger to the centre of her tiny palm. She clasps it, and looks up at him, face full of surprise, like she hadn’t known that he’s there.

“Yes, darling, that’s your dad!” Makoto coos as Homare blinks again, turns her little head towards the sound of her voice, “hello, welcome to the world!”

\--

For a time - all is calm. All is well. Saburouta flips between work, home and self-betterment.

The first year and a half after Homare’s birth, he and Makoto cut their work times in half so as to take care of her, taking turns. Taking care of a baby is hard - but not impossible. Makoto has plenty of friends who are already parents to ask for advice when they can’t figure something out by themselves.

There are hardly any days when both of them are too busy to take care of the baby, and even if there are any, Saburouta can generally work something out with his superiors. True cross is a bit more forgiving of family related circumstances than Makoto’s employers.

Homare grows fast - soon enough she’s walking around by herself on wobbly legs and babbling away in that special way that small children do.

It gets easier to coordinate times when Homare starts kindergarten - Saburouta picks the shifts back up, but Makoto works out slightly altered working hours so as to be able to drop Homare off and pick her up on time.

\--

Saburouta comes home, quite late, after a field mission. He smells like ashes and sulphur, but the apartment - of a warm meal.

Homare’s tiny face peeks out from behind the doorframe, curious. She gasps upon seeing him, and disappears back deeper into the kitchen.

“Mom, dad’s home!” Saburouta hears her announce as he toes off his heavy boots and slips into the house slippers.

“Hello!” Saburouta calls out, to affirm Homare’s words, “What’s that lovely smell?”

“Dinner’s almost done!” Makoto answers, “Gosh, I can smell you from here, Saburouta! Take a shower and then join us!”

Homare’s face peeks out again, smiling proudly, “We’re making ox blood soup! I’m helping mom!”

Saburouta chuckles, “Oh, is that so? Thank you, honey. I can’t wait to try it.”

“It’s gonna be the best!” she announces with the confidence of a child. Then, her nose wrinkles, “Yuck, mom’s right! You stink, dad! You need a bath!”

Saburouta smiles sheepishly, “Ah, sorry about that. I’ll hang my coat outside, alright? And I’ll wash up. Would you tell mom to open the windows for a bit to air the apartment out?”

Homare nods in affirmation and turns around to head back to where Makoto is.

Saburouta slips into the bathroom for a quick shower.

They eat together with the radio chattering away quietly. Homare talks about kindergarten - her friends, and how they played, and what kind of activities the teachers had prepared for them today. Makoto and Saburouta listen to her attentively, throwing in an occasional question, content to not speak too much about their own work days - long and tough and, thankfully, over.

After dinner, they clean up - the girls clearing the table and Saburouta washing the dishes. Then, after some playing, it’s time for Homare to wash up and go to bed. She protests bedtime a little bit, claiming to not be sleepy, but a hearty yawn gives her away.

After a quick bedtime story (read from her new favourite book, with different voices for every character), Homare is asleep, leaving Makoto and Saburouta free to go about finishing any work-related business they might have (Makoto has some paperwork due for tomorrow, and Saburouta has to wash the stench out of today’s uniform).

It’s another simple night.

\--

Saburouta is sitting in an izakaya with Kubo, who’s visiting Tokyo on some business and had called him up for old time’s sake. They’ve stayed in contact over the years when Kubo had transferred after his brief employment in the Tokyo branch of True cross, sometimes writing each other letter and sometimes meeting in person.

Saburouta, at this point in time, has perhaps four or five people in the organisation he could call... friends, or perhaps good acquaintances. Kubo is one of them, and two others are a pair of juniors he’s worked with closely a good number of times. The last is one of the employees of the Deep Keep - the only one who treats him more or less decently and who he shares meals with on a regular basis.

“God, Toudou, you look so different,” Kubo remarks, pouring them both a glass. “Heard you got promoted again - middle first class! Finally, we’re on equal grounds, eh?”

Saburouta accepts the drink with a bashful sort of smile - “Ah, yes, I was pleasantly surprised myself; I expected to stay middle second class forever.”

“There you go again - so humble! Ack, wish I could use some of that, instead I’m always too full of myself and keep getting into trouble,” Kubo laughs. “Well, that doesn’t matter though! Let’s drink to you, old friend!”

They empty their cups in one swoop, placing them on the table with a soft clack.

“Say, Kubo, shall we order something to eat as well? They have amazing seared tuna here,” Saburouta offers, filling their cups a second time.

“Oh, I love the sound of that! Count me in, Toudou!”

They drink and eat and share stories well into the evening and into the night.

“Say, Toudou, I do worry about you sometimes,” Kubo says after he’s done laughing at his own joke, “You still don’t use any weapons, do you? Just your demons and verses… I knew a guy, a younger exorcist, also was more of a support type, but then the one mission he got separated and killed ‘cuz he couldn’t protect himself. He was an Aria, you see, also didn’t carry any kind of weapon.”

Saburouta feels himself grow sober, the light atmosphere shifting into gloom, “That’s terrible to hear, Kubo. Were you close with him?”

Kubo sniffs, looking at something on the table, “Yeah, you could say that, I guess. I was looking after him like a mother hen, you know. We went on a whole bunch of missions together, chatted and stuff. Then he got called in to help with a goblin infestation in Kushima, and that’s when he got offed. Left his beau behind, the poor thing. I was the one to break the news to her.”

Saburouta frowns, not sure how to respond to that. He settles on, “The world is so cruel, taking someone so young. I hope his passing was quick and painless.”

“Yeah, me too. Fuck, man,” Kubo says. “But what I was getting at - you should consider learning some weapons too. You got a lot more experience than he ever did, but it’d be easier on my heart to know you can get yourself out of tight spots like that. Like, not to teach you how to live, but... just think about it, Toudou.”

Saburouta hums, “It’s a good point, Kubo. I’d never thought about it - but, you’re right. I’ll see about it. I’m not too fit for guns or swords, though. Ahh, I’ll have to think about it some more, but I’ll try and find something.”

“Good to hear, old friend,” Kubo says, finally smiling again, though dimly. He orders another bottle of sake, and pours them another round. “Let’s drink to everyone no longer with us, and to no one dying young going forwards. Cheers, Toudou!”

“Cheers!” Saburouta agrees, and they down the drink together.

\--

When Homare starts learning how to read, she all but begs her parents to help her practice so that she can get better at it and read books and comics all by herself.

Saburouta and Makoto agree easily - it’s hard to say no to that determined little face.

The kindergarten teachers started with hiragana, so that’s what they help her with at first. Homare is a fast learner for a five year old. Saburouta finds it funny - she’s already so different from him. He only started learning to read in elementary school, and he had a lot of trouble with it at first, more so when the curriculum started adding kanji. He’s proficient now, but the kind of focus and dedication he needed to get here is… a lot, honestly.

But Homare takes after her mother here - she’s good at learning and so very smart and thoughtful for a kid her age.

“The do-g we… went! To the o-the-r si-de of the… road!” Homare reads, fumbling and pausing but not stopping. Makoto sits by her side, reading along with her in case she gets stuck. Saburouta sits on the other side of the low table, watching the two of them. He’s here more for moral support - he’ll be helping Homare learn tomorrow.

“And the-n, he ba… bar… barked? He barked at the cat. ‘What are you do-ing here?’” Homare’s brow furrows as she turns the page. Makoto looks up at Saburouta with a sappy, proud kind of smile that he can’t help but return.

“Would you girls like some snacks?” Saburouta asks gently. Homare stops midword, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Snacks?”

Saburouta nods, “Yes, anything you want. You’ve been studying so well~ You deserve it, honey.”

Homare looks at Makoto as if asking her to affirm what Saburouta is saying. After her nod, Homare turns thoughtful again, trying to think of what to ask for.

“Can you get the animal cookies, please?” she asks, “and the- and the fruit candy! The colourful yummy ones, not the other ones.”

“Is that all?” Saburouta asks, “How about something to drink? Do you want some strawberry milk?”

Homare gasps softly before nodding. Saburouta chuckles, then turns to Makoto, “What else should I get?”

After getting a grocery list, he steps out of the apartment with a soft sight. Once he’s out of the complex, he stops by the entrance to light a cigarette. He breathes the smoke in slowly, languidly. Closes his eyes and savours the buzz of nicotine.

It’s a dark, overcast kind of day - all the shadows seem longer and more pronounced than usual; the street is a gloomy kind of picture, so different from the light and warmth of their apartment.

He’ll get the groceries and they’ll make dinner afterwards - the three of them together.

They’re odd, these little moments in between, when he can see or hear neither Homare nor Makoto. He doesn’t know why, but it’s so easy to forget them. So easy to forget they’re real - flesh and blood and soul - that they’re his as he is theirs. His… family, in a way that father and brothers and everyone else has never been.

He keeps a picture of them in his wallet - as a keepsake when he misses them, he says to anyone who asks - but in reality it’s so that he can keep reminding himself they exist. It seems as if a dream he might wake up from at any moment.

\--

Heeding Kubo’s warning, Saburouta picks up throwing knives as a weapon. They’re light, unobtrusive and easy to hide under the exorcist’s coat. He even commissions a harness for them.

The knives are only a last resort. He can attach seals to them for more damage, and use them as a way to make an opening when fleeing.

Well… they also come in handy whenever he might need a knife for, ah, non work-related reasons. Two birds, one stone and all. Well, knife in this case.

Saburouta pulls another blade from the holster, adjusts his grip to how the instructor showed him, and sends it sailing through the air. It embeds itself into the outermost zone of the target.

Not good enough yet, but getting better. That’s fine. Saburouta is good at practicing, and has plenty of patience and time.

\--

Things keep piling up. Work becomes more demanding as The Order restructures and sends older specialists to the periphery. ‘ _Something’s going on_ ,’ he thinks as he reads yet another reassignment order that will take a bite out of his department, ‘ _this can’t be for no reason_.’ He goes through the names in the list, connects them to the faces of his colleagues in his mind. At this rate, there will only be two doctors left. A rather worrying conclusion.

Less personnel means Saburouta needs to take on more shifts as an exorcist, and there’s a growing turmoil with the depths of the Keep as well.

Now, he’s never gotten along too well with his family, has given up on even the thought of something like that, but lately… father and brothers seem angrier, more ill-tempered. He assumes there must be… some sort of reason for it- perhaps even the same reason as for the Order’s antics -, but no one ever tells him shit.

Tasks that Saburouta has been doing for years suddenly get nit-picked over every little thing that- not even anything he’s done wrong- just what they would have done differently. He feels years younger than he is as they dress him down over the stroke order in a sigil, as they dig into him for how he draws the angles of the seals. Saburouta grits his teeth and looks down. He’d thought - he’d thought that they were over this, but guess not. He knew that the brief period of respite was too good to last. _It’s all about to go to hell_.

Makoto notices the stress piling up - brings it up time and time again. (“Are you sure no one else can take that shift?”; “Why don’t they give that to someone else - are you their work horse?”; “You keep coming home tired and grumpy, Saburouta, please, I’m worried-”) And every time he has no choice but to swallow all the bile inside him and smile and say that he’s fine and good and everything is under control.

Makoto doesn’t believe him.

“What if we moved?” she asks one evening, “You keep saying that they’re sending senior staff out - maybe we should go too. Any city in the periphery must be better than this.”

If only it were that easy. “I can’t leave,” Saburouta mutters, staring listlessly into his cup of tea, “It’s my other job - in the Keep - they wouldn’t let me leave. They need me there.” As little as they trust him to actually do anything worthwhile - Raijin would disown and destroy him before letting him leave. The man cares too deeply about traditions, and loathsome as it may be, Saburouta is his blood and thus a part of those traditions.

“Saburouta, you’re miserable here,” Makoto says, “Just try and talk to him?” She knows the root of his hesitance, of his fear, “He can’t be completely unreasonable, right?”

Saburouta laughs - a high and strained thing that makes her frown only deepen. “Oh, Makoto,” he says lightly - but it’s a dark kind of light, “ _you don’t even know_.”

“I- I’ll go with you, for moral support,” Makoto insists, “He’ll have to listen to the two of us.”

“No, I don’t want to get into a fight with him,” Saburouta says, the smile gone from his face, leaving a gloomy expression in its stead, “And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me, Saburouta,” she says, confident. He wishes he could believe words like that; he stays quiet and bites at his lip. The quiet is long enough for Makoto to falter, “...Right?”

“I can never know for sure,” Saburouta whispers. His side aches. There’s an ugly pause; he can see the thoughts going through her head. None of them good.

“...We’ll figure it out,” Makoto says quietly as she reaches out to hold his hand on the table. Her palm is warm and comforting. She doesn’t say anything else.

Saburouta closes his eyes and wonders how long he has left of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally... some rest for this poor man...
> 
> Would be a shame if something were to... happen 😳😳
> 
> Edit:  
> Btw this isn't clear from the text bc Saburouta doesn't know this, but all the high-level specialists being sent out to the periphery is because of Satan escaping section 13 (the time he runs away for 2 years - and the next chapter picks up just a little bit (like a few days/weeks) before he comes back, but again - Saburouta isn't privy to any of that info).


	6. Monster: This blood has itched to be spilled for too long now to taste sweet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wicked revelations and choices. A man must go down before he can rise up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: chapter contains character death, character dealing with loss (like taking it very badly), self-harm
> 
> I'm so fucking sorry

“Saburouta, you’re coming with me and Tsuguro for an assignment,” Waro announces upon barging into the office room of The Keep, where Saburouta has been filing papers since early morning.

Saburouta drops his pen at the sudden loud noise of his brother’s voice. Then, the words catch up to him. Saburouta peers over the edge of the divider at Waro, dubious about what exactly ‘assignment’ entails. Experience shows it’s likely extremely unpleasant and dirty work.

“Ahh, what kind?” He asks meekly, “A-and when?”

“We gotta fix up some barriers. And - now,” Waro answers, somewhat cryptically. He’s looking around the room flittingly, as if nervous.

Saburouta wonders why fixing up barriers is suddenly a whole assignment - it’s one of his weekly tasks, actually. Has something happened to make it urgent? And if so - shouldn’t someone more, ah, qualified go?

“Why me? S-shouldn’t you guys go with dad?” Saburouta asks, but rises from his desk nonetheless. He tries to ignore the gazes of everyone else in the room; they make his skin crawl.

“Dad has a prior engagement and he said to take you,” Waro answers simply, then takes a better look at Saburouta and sneers, “Come on, put your uniform on properly, we gotta be there soon and you gotta, at the very least, _look_ like you know what you’re doing.” Then he turns around to exit the room and go-

“W-wait - where are we going?” Saburouta asks.

Waro’s out the door already, but his answer is still audible - “Main entrance in five.”

Saburouta curses softly as he makes his way to the coat rooms to get his exorcist’s coat and boots. Hastily, he changes so as to be - fit for field work? Where are they going? How long will they be gone? _Why does no one tell him anything?_

By the time he runs to the main entrance, his brothers are already waiting there. Tsuguro’s tapping his foot impatiently and rolls his eyes when Saburouta’s close enough to see it. Saburouta feels himself pouting - if they wanted him to be timely, they should have just given him a heads up sooner. Bunch of pricks.

“Now that we’re all here, let’s go,” Waro says with a frown. They head out at a brisk pace, cutting a path between the buildings of Headquarters, heading out further - to a place Saburouta hasn’t visited a lot - the place where the orphan kids or- or whatever they are- live. The Asylum? Was that the name? The freezing January wind whips at his ears and hands painfully. A thin layer of fresh snow crunches under their boots.

Saburouta frowns, “W-where are we going?”

“It doesn’t matter, don’t ask,” Waro replies.

Saburouta’s frown deepens, he swallows nervously, “uh-uhm, what kind of barriers will we be p-putting up? J-just something to w-ward the demons off?”

“You’ll _see_ ,” Waro says, more irritated, “Ugh, just stop asking stupid questions, Saburouta.”

Saburouta closes his mouth, a retort dying and shrivelling up on his tongue. It stings.

They come to what looks like a side door, but a well-gated one - there’s a grated door and a heavy-duty looking metal door right behind it. Saburouta… doubts that’s for the kids.

Waro goes over and punches a code into the automatic lock by the door. He sighs, turning to Saburouta with a long-suffering expression, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but don’t embarrass us. Just stay quiet and don’t do anything, if possible,” he turns back to face the door, but the mutter is still audible, ”Ugh, why’d we have to take him along...”

Saburouta, feeling shamed, shrinks back. He’s getting a bad feeling about this. A very, _very_ bad feeling.

The door opens, and there’s a man in a lab coat on the other side, “Hello, are you Toudou?”

“Yes, I’m Toudou Waro, senior first class exorcist,” Waro says as he pulls out his licence to show it to the man, “And these are my brothers, Toudou Tsuguro, senor second class, and Toudou Saburouta, middle first class.”

Saburouta fumbles to pull his licence out and show it to the man. After a second of scrutiny, he says, “Alright, follow me, gentlemen.” Then, he turns and heads inside, the three of them following in silence.

The sense of omen tastes stronger here; Saburouta feels a full-body shiver the second he steps over the threshold. He… feels something. Something dangerous in the air; as if it’s electrified, as if he should kneel and bow to appease it. He casts a sideways glance at his brothers, but finds no trace of discomfort in them.

He tries to shake the feeling, but can’t quite manage to. He feels queasy. The corridor is not unlike a hospital - stark bright with artificial lights and impersonal, cold. There’s drains along the walls and a smell he can’t quite decipher in the air. A bit like disinfectant, but not quite. This definitely isn’t for the kids. It’s something leagues more sinister.

“To think there’s a medical facility under the asylum,” Tsuguro muses.

“Don’t question it,” Waro chides. Father’s words echo in the silence that follows - “We Toudous never question our superiors. That’s how we’ve survived so far.”

“The barriers are set here, around the central room, five altogether,” the man says. “Look for floor panels like this - they’ll be underneath.” To illustrate he taps his foot on a smaller panel, the clicks with the impact and releases. The man leans down to open it.

“I’ll take this one,” Waro says, stepping forwards.

“Uh...uhm- Waro? What should I-?” Saburouta starts, but Waro groans loudly, irritated-

“I distinctly remember telling you to not ask stupid questions, Saburouta,” he sneers, “Shut up.” He lands a kick at Saburouta’s shin that has him wincing and stepping back. “Just go and get the one over there, Tsuguro and I will deal with the others! Or don’t! - you’d probably mess up rather than strengthen it.”

“S-sorry...” Saburouta mutters, turning to go counter-clockwise along the corridor. His shin smarts. But his pride smarts more - how is he supposed to know what to do if no one tells him what this is or why it is? What kind of barrier is he supposed to use? It’s not a stupid question at all, _really_ …

“Man, how is he so lame,” Tsuguro snickers to Waro behind him, “Still can’t believe he’s married. I feel so sorry for Makoto-san.”

“Remember, it was an arranged thing,” Waro returns, his voice still contemptuous, “She’d be long gone if she could.”

Saburouta pretends to not hear their exchange. It’s an old horse, they’ve been kicking it ever since the wedding. It’s arguably one of the less sore subjects when it comes to their attempts at, hah, ‘fraternal bonding’. He’s used to tuning it all out, or going along with it, whatever makes them less angry with him at the time.

He spots the next panel with the barrier and kneels to open it. He recognises the barrier - a rather strong one, and of a type he’s not very experienced with. He’s… just recently learned to do it properly, to be honest.

“I really am incompetent, huh,” he mumbles at the barrier as he lifts its vessel out so he can work - it doesn’t respond to his words, unsurprisingly, “Ahh, why did I even ask? It was an obvious answer… should’ve thought of it myself… should’ve just stood by until he said something...”

He’s pulled out of his self-deprecating thoughts by a sudden noise- the panel he’s at faces the mouth of another corridor that ends with a heavy-duty metal door. And the door - it’s opening.

A woman - also wearing a lab coat - steps out with a writing pad. Briefly, she makes eye contact with Saburouta, who’s still kneeling on the floor with the barrier panel open in front of him.

Then - he feels it - whatever ominous feeling he’s been getting - the source is in that room, flowing out like miasma. It makes his hair stand on end and his stomach fill with dread and his limbs want to run run run away.

Saburouta tries to fix his attention back to the barrier. He just needs to re-do and activate it. Not that hard. He shuts it off with a faint whoosh, the glow of them dimming immediately. His hands are shaking when he goes to reinforce the lines of the symbols with the sealing paint.

And then- then something reaches out to him. It’s hard to describe the feeling; it doesn’t really feel like anything else. It envelopes- not with an ill intent, but… it doesn’t feel _right_. Then, there is a warm touch to the back of his neck that blooms into a hot pain and he starts to panic-

but then it fades out. His stomach drops.

Saburouta touches a palm to his neck and - nothing. He only feels smooth skin and the small hairs. Physically, that is. Saburouta isn’t sure how- but- that wasn’t his imagination. It was… whatever is in that room.

A man walks past him, pushing a trolley with canisters - Saburouta catches the writing on one, saying ‘oxygen’. What do they need it for?

The woman makes a note on her pad, and gestures for the man to bring the canisters in. Saburouta springs to his feet as they turn their backs, trying to sneak a peek into the room.

It’s too quick - just a flash, but there’s a sunken floor at the centre, and a hospital bed with a- a man? And then the door closing takes him out of visual range.

For half a minute or so, Saburouta stands stock still, still staring at the door where he’d seen the prone form of the man. There’s no doubt - that was the source of his discomfort, that was what had touched him without touching him, that was something powerful and great and- and something Saburouta has a hard time even comprehending.

And he hadn’t seen it, but he knows - the man had been looking back at him.

“Saburouta!” he hears Waro yell, and snaps out of his stupor, “Are you done? Come on, you only had to do the one, how long could it possibly take you!?”

Fuck, they’d done the other barriers while he’d zoned out!

“A-almost!” he answers, high pitched, and squats back down to finish with it. His lines are shakier than he’d like and rushed. He places it back into the pit and chants the activation verse - it connects to the other four with a soft ‘thwomp’, the paint taking on a pale blue glow.

Saburouta closes the panel and jogs back to where Waro and Tsuguro are. They both turn to leave before Saburouta reaches them.

“Ah, I’m exhausted,” Waro bemoans, “let’s go out later, Tsuguro.”

“Alright, Waro,” Tsuguro responds.

Saburouta falls into step behind them, quiet and unobtrusive. More a shadow than a person.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck anxiously as he walks. It tingles like the aftereffect of electricity. He _knows_ that wasn’t the end of it.

\--

Saburouta saw it coming, of course... but not quite like this.

This is a dream, surely. There is no other explanation for what he sees, for how the room around him feels.

It's… strange and bright here. His footsteps make no sound against the floor. His body has no mass. Directions feel like an afterthought - he's walking down a corridor and getting further along no matter what direction he moves in.

It's not the same one as from the place he went to today, but… it feels like it. The same smell, the same sense of omen. The same _something_ pervading the air.

Saburouta comes to a stop in front of a heavy-duty metal door. It opens up by itself with a terrible, pitiable wail…

It's The Room. The round one. The one with the sunken floor and a hospital bed in the middle. The one with the man.

But there is no man here. Just a large, pulsating being of light, floating up- up- close to the ceiling; bathing everything in its glory and splendour.

"Excuse my shape," it says in a completely normal, human voice, "but I wanted to talk to you today."

"T-to me?" Saburouta asks, taking a step forward when all he wants to do is step back and away. But he cannot tear his gaze from the light, he cannot avoid or evade it.

"Yes, you caught my attention," it says, "I felt you when you entered section 13, and again when you were at the barrier outside where I am."

Saburouta stares endlessly into the brightness, afraid he might go blind, but helplessly caught, "A-are you the man? The one one w-who was on the bed?"

"Yes. My name is Lucifer, and I am The King of Light," the being- he says. Saburouta begins to make out the details of the demon's form - within the mass of light there are wings, folded tightly to the main body in such a way that obscures everything else. And there are eyes open and staring, nestled between the heavy feathers.

"T-the Baal?" Saburouta squeaks. Then, in a silly display of fear and respect he drops to one knee and bows his head, "It is an honour and a pleasure."

Lucifer laughs - booming and soft at once, his feathers rattling like knives. "How polite you are. I like that in a human. You may rise."

"It is not an e-everyday day thing to meet a Demon King in one's d-dream," Saburouta replies with a giddy smile.

"Mmm, true. How do you know I'm not a figment of your imagination?"

"I don't… I'm j-just going on a hunch. You marked me t-today, didn't you? I felt it at the back of my neck. You… t-this was your intention, to meet me in a dream where we could t-talk freely," Saburouta says, but immediately feels like it comes off too assumptive, "R-right?"

"Yes," Lucifer confirms, "do you know why?"

Saburouta responds in the negative.

"You are weak and unsatisfied and you reek of demon," the Ba’al says, "I know what you did. I find it both amusing and potentially useful."

Saburouta isn't sure what to make of that. Is… this a compliment or a dig at him? "Wuh-what do you mean?"

"That doesn’t matter. Now, Saburouta - would you join me at my side if I were to ask it? Would you cast your current life away for me? I would reward you, respect you, cherish you as my own," Lucifer goes on, seeming to grow brighter.

The change of subject is unexpected. Saburouta isn’t sure how to respond, what to think. "Y-you would have me leave _everything_ behind?" he asks, his heart pounding in unease. There's… ah, there's something to the offer. Something that makes him want to accept it thoughtlessly. As if the being before him – Lucifer – is well meaning and kind, as if he isn’t a demon.

But just before his mouth moves without his consent, Saburouta hesitates and bits his tongue instead.

"I would have you leave the True Cross Order behind. I find that they do not share my vision, and they do not seek to stand with me. So, they will turn on me when they get the chance to," Lucifer says, "my Brother Samael is the worst of the lot. He pretends to have sympathy for my plight, yet I know he is incapable of it."

"Wuh-what is your plight, i-if I may ask, King-of-Light?" Saburouta asks, unable to make heads or tails of the demon's words. This meeting and conversation are strange. Maybe it is a dream, a nightmare of his own mind’s making.

"My body is expiring, and I need a new one. Each day I wait in boundless agony for a relief that never comes. I am tired and resentful," Lucifer says, "you know pain and resentment too, don't you? You understand how I feel?"

Ah, this he _understands_.

Saburouta smiles wryly. Demons truly can see into the darkest depths of men's hearts. But he is not afraid, oddly enough, and though most would call it terrible judgement… Saburouta is intrigued, at least enough to continue the conversation.

"I know pain and resentment, yes. Intimately so," Saburouta answers, "they were the horrible gift that I was given in the cradle, and they have accompanied me through life."

The light is so warm. He feels so safe. So understood. If only he were to accept, Lucifer, his King – he could take the pain away-

"I want you to think on my offer, human," Lucifer says, "I will come to you again in a dream when I start my movements. You will make your choice then. I hope it is the right one."

"Yes, King-of-Light," Saburouta says with a deep bow. His mind is tearing desperately into two directions. The one that screams yes, and the one that screams caution.

“Until we next meet,” Lucifer says gently as he grows dim; until finally he fades away, leaving Saburouta alone in the strange landscape of this dream.

\--

Saburouta wakes, his chest heaving and his skin covered in a layer of sick and sticky sweat. His heart races like a horse in gallop. He stares blindly into the darkness of his room, but the picture of Lucifer - the heavenly glow - overlays the darkness as an afterimage.

Awake now, he knows - that hadn’t been a figment of his subconscious mind. That hadn’t been a fever dream. It was real.

Saburouta scoots over to sit on the side of his bed, bowed over with his elbows resting on his knees and his shaking hands covering his face as he seeks to calm his breathing.

‘ _I would have you leave the True Cross Order behind._ ’

Saburouta squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get the afterimage to become clearer, to count the feathers upon an edge of a wing. To keep the image fresh.

‘ _I would reward you, respect you, cherish you as my own._ ’

What loving words. All Saburouta has ever wanted can be boiled down to these three promises. To be rewarded after a job well done; to be respected both in person and in opinion, to belong somewhere, _to feel like_ he belongs somewhere.

None of these has he found in his work or in his family.

Except… except for Makoto and Homare. Immediately, he doubts. Immediately he questions why a Ba’al would offer him this and what the King of Light’s motives may be.

As long as he has his girls… he can bear anything, as he has been doing up to now. He couldn’t leave them, no matter for who. And yet, he _yearns_ …

Saburouta feels his heart tearing in two, that wretched, indecisive thing. He knows he will get no more sleep tonight. He will feel no rest in the foreseeable future.

Instead, he pads quietly into the kitchen to drink a glass of cold water. The clock ticks away, it is four in the morning, and the sky outside the window is black as pitch on this cold winter night.

Then, he decides on taking a shower and doing some reading until the time he has to get to work. Anything to distract himself from the decision to come.

\--

Life goes on, stays the same, except in how it _doesn’t_.

Saburouta still juggles that delicate balance - work, family, practice and training. A dreadful routine. Decision after decision after decision, never ending.

And all the while - at the back of his head -

A horrible echo, a siren’s song, a demon’s tantalising whisper-

‘ _Would you give it all up to join me?_ ’

Saburouta smokes his second cigarette on this break, but the calm doesn’t come no matter how deeply he breathes or how long he holds the smoke inside his lungs. He’s skittish and nervous and- and he feels like he’s coming undone, threat by horrible thread.

He dreams of them - of the things that could be. Of glory and blood and revenge; dismay on his father’s dying face, the horror of his now-peers as they realise their crimes. Saburouta… he doesn’t feel at home here. Not the way that he feels like he should. Not the way that everyone else does. He feels trapped and suffocated and _vindictive_ like an animal.

His father and brothers don’t help - after that first assignment he is dragged back into family traditions and everything else he’s been avoiding for years. Missions with them that leave him with headaches that last for days and in a foul mood for just as many. Their expectations, ever growing - setting goals and milestones that he can’t reach and belittling him when he fails. And he always fails – how could he not? They _set him up_.

Frustration. Endless frustration at being treated like a dog, of always being _less than_.

And… and this bile is starting to leak through the cracks of his facade.

A biting comment that he’s horrified to have uttered right after it slips from his lips, a dreadful, violent thought when someone bosses him around or puts him down. A growing disquiet, a thirst for violence. A weeping need for blood.

Makoto notices - and why shouldn’t she? He acts as he always has up until Homare is asleep and then he can no longer hide how he’s… morphing, mutating into something else, into someone else.

“What’s wrong?” she asks time and time again when they are alone. Her eyes are full of worry; she does not know what to do or how to help him. (there is nothing that could help him anymore.)

“I’m just tired,” Saburouta says with a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Sorry to worry you.” (‘ _It’s just these thoughts_ ,’ he thinks. ‘ _It’s just these thoughts that keep me up at night and plague me in the day. It’s just this feeling that nothing is ever okay._ ’)

“You can talk to me, Saburouta,” she says, not backing away, “I can see something eat you up inside.”

“It will pass,” he says with a soft sight, “come here.” He steps closer to her and wraps his arms around her in a hug. After a second of hesitance, she clings tightly to his waist, her head resting on his shoulder as she lays a gentle kiss on the side of his throat.

“Are you sure?” she asks, “We can still try to move, to get away from-” he quiets her with a gentle shushing noise against her ear.

No. Not at all. He’s never been less sure about anything - he doesn’t know what to do, how to think, how to act, and it’s all piling up and getting worse by the day. “I’m absolutely positive,” he mutters, nuzzling her hair, “Just be patient alongside with me, alright?”

Her grips tightens further, her fingers digging into the tense muscles of his back almost painfully, but she says nothing more.

\--

'If at first you don't succeed,' Saburouta thinks, 'then try again.'

The ground bubbles and shifts. _Something_ crawls out. The shape is vague and shifting, but the eyes - however many they may be - all turn to look at him, one by one.

He can’t try to eat this one, he thinks. Something - something feels off. Feels special.

"What do you desire, mortal?" it asks soundlessly, the words projected straight into his psyche.

"What I desire…" Saburouta wonders. What is it exactly? Why is he doing this? He stares down at the body, still bleeding slowly. Just another dead thing at his feet. What for?

"You…" the thing says, as if it's remembering something. "I've heard of you."

"You've heard of me?" Saburouta asks.

"Indeed," it answers, blinks like a ripple. "All this carnage you've done… everything you've broken and soiled… what drives you, human?"

All that Saburouta can think of is - nothing.

Perhaps he's just like this. Perhaps he's always been like this. Perhaps he was born wrong or raised wrong or broken irreparably along the way or- something.

"I don't want much-" _he wants justice and retribution_ "- I'm just a simple guy-" _he's full of hate and loathing and bile_ "- I think I just want to be... respected?-" _he wants to be feared and adored, he wants to be exalted_ "- I just want to live a simple life-" _he wants to burn everything down_.

"Are you honest with yourself?" it asks, laughing, "Is that really what you think? I can smell your rage from here."

Saburouta opens his mouth but words won't come out. Of course he's lying. He's always lying these days. Lying that he's fine, lying that he doesn't mind working overtime, lying that he knows what he’s doing and that he’s sure, lying that _'this won't hurt-'_.

The demon grows, swells, sprouts wings and limbs, all crooked and ugly. "I know you, but do you know me? Do you know who you’ve called upon or are you reaching aimlessly into the dark for whatever you might snatch?" it asks, "Say my name, and I will grant your wish. If you do not know it, then release me. Or I will drag you down with me into the deepest depths of hell."

Saburouta doesn't know its name. "What are you?" he asks, filled with awe as it keeps growing and growing and growing-

"You need to be more careful," the demon whispers sharply into his mind, "If you keep doing things that you don't understand, you’ll regret it."

A shiver passes over Saburouta's spine at the threat, but he musters up just enough fake bravado- "I have nothing to lose," he says with a weak, shaky laugh.

"Mmm," the demon hums, the sound reverberates in the skull oddly, "They always say that. It's never true. Don't get cocky, you're just a man, no matter how vile."

Saburouta frowns. Just what is that supposed to mean? "Fine," he says curtly, "I will release you since you want it so bad. Rot in Gehenna."

It blinks at him again, and lets out a low rumbling noise that may or may not be laughter. "I'll wait for you to join me, Toudou Saburouta."

He breaks the seal by scuffing the line he'd so carefully, so lovingly drawn not even an hour ago.

Another bad apple. Another dead end. Oh, Saburouta's stomach rumbles in dismay and he scowls at the ruined seal with ill-hidden frustration and rage. When will he finally find something good to _eat_?

\--

Life has always taken his choices from him. This time is no different.

Except in the way that it hurts. Except in how this time… it is hard to swallow it down - this is too sharp and too large for his throat.

Makoto’s face is gentle but strange in greyscale. Blurry to Saburouta’s tearful eyes. Black has always been… no, always was her colour. But not quite like this. Her portrait, all but lost among the flowers.

The wake has just begun, and already he is too exhausted to go on with it any longer. The atmosphere is heavy and oppressing, suffocating. He wants to leave, but he can’t. His limbs are lead-heavy and bone-tired. Saburouta is rooted where he sits.

On the other side of the aisle, her parents weep quietly. Behind them all, her relatives, and even Saburouta’s own family at the very back. Homare sits right beside him, her hand clutched in the fabric of Saburouta’s suit jacket. A lost child - Saburouta finds himself feeling eerily similar.

What happens now? After they cremate her and pick her bones, who will hold the ashes? How will Saburouta and Homare live, knowing that he can’t afford the rent of their apartment and all their other expenses by himself, let alone take the time to care for Homare, who’s just started elementary school, as he should with his two jobs? Where will they _go_?

He’s still reeling, stuck in a state of shock, of disbelief. They had called him to identify the body when they pulled her from the wreckage of the accident, but he can't grasp that she is… that she's…

Saburouta's lip wobbles dangerously as tears overflow his eyes and run down his cheeks. His next breath hitches, and he folds down smaller, bent over his lap with one fist against the floor and the other over his mouth, stifling the sound.

He knew his luck would run out, yet he finds himself unable to stomach it now that it has happened.

This is it. This is the end of happiness. All he feels is immeasurable pain and anguished anger.

\--

And when Makoto is long cremated - and her funeral has just ended, Saburouta stands by the grave, holding Homare's hand and watching the smooth facets and sharp edges of her grave. They are the last people standing here.

Fresh flowers, white ribbons, birds singing in the trees and the scent of early summer in the air. Nature doesn't match the mood at all. It feels like a joke.

Saburouta can't laugh. But he's too spent to cry. His eyes hurt, his head hurts, his bones hurt. His entire being - in burning, throbbing agony.

"What do we do now, dad?" Homare asks timidly. She's looking up at him, and he doesn't know what to say.

(These are the first words she’s uttered in days - it’s been all nods and head shakes and listlessness. Her grief is terrible and quiet and hard to see, her tears come and go and come again. She doesn’t even sob out loud. Just stares blankly into the distance, her cheeks wet until Saburouta notices and pulls her into his arms where she curls up and shakes.)

‘ _Now we wait for the next disaster, tense up for the next blow. Now we wait for life, that clumsy fucking butcher, to finish us off._ ’

That’s not the kind of stuff you can tell a six year old. Homare’s barely coming to terms with the death of a parent, she doesn’t need to start worrying for her own mortality just yet.

Saburouta sounds empty as he says, “We’ll figure it out, darling.”

\--

It’s not an easy choice to make, but Saburouta moves back into the house of Toudou, taking Homare with him.

There are no words for the emotions that overcome him as he carries boxes and bags into his old room. For the horrible way his skin crawls as his father watches the proceedings coldly. For the anxiety he gets as he walks over the old wooden floors.

He feels like a kid again, and not in a good way. So many memories of this cursed place- and almost none of them good.

The housekeeper, Aya, is his only relief through the process. Her smile is friendly and not forced, she gets on Homare’s good side almost immediately, and helps keep her busy while Saburouta unpacks. He’s thankful for her, he is.

But he would still rather be anywhere else.

They’d cleared out a room for Homare too - repurposed one of the numerous guest rooms. It has a nice view from the window and a nice wallpaper, but that’s about it. The rest is far from fitting for a child. Heavy, hand carved mahogany furniture and steel blue curtains. Saburouta carries what little belongings Homare has into the room and they seem like a bad joke.

Colourful children’s books in the dreary shelves, a soft blanket with kittens on it on a bed far too large for her. Her toys on the desk like it’s a lost-and-found.

‘ _Homare shouldn’t have to live here_ ,’ he thinks. But there is nowhere else to go. There is no more running away from this place. Saburouta sighs in defeat as he rests his hands against the desk with his head hung low.

He allows himself a few breaths, just enough to get past the worst of the emotions taking over his head. All of his pain embedded in these walls.

And worst of all - the perpetrators still here, masquerading as friends and helpers.

Saburouta remembers Raijin’s voice over the phone, cold but smug, as Saburouta explained the situation to him and asked to move back in. His father is sure to hold this over him.

This house is better than living on the street, but only marginally.

\--

As he expected, when it rains, it pours, and if moving back in was terrible, then living here is leagues worse.

The meals where he eats with his family are all but unbearable. Saburouta’s skin has grown too soft to be able to handle his father and brothers for extended periods of time - and more often than not he rises from the table shaking.

(With what? Well, that depends on whatever happens during the meal - it can be resentment, fear, anxiety, anger - any and all negative emotions.)

Raijin is a tyrant - he works Saburouta to the bone. His duties are all but doubled, and he is expected to attend all the meetings of the upper officers of the Keep as a ghost - ever present but quiet. “This is to train you,” father says, “You are a Toudou whether I like it or not, and I will prepare you to fulfil your role if it kills me.”

Saburouta doesn’t want said role. He hates everything it stands for, everything he has suffered for it.

\--

Saburouta finally is allowed to make contract with the family familiars. They make a whole ceremony of it.

There’s candlelight, a pit, a room that is covered in seals and barriers so densely that there is no inch left empty. Dead quiet as he stands in the middle of it all, wanting out.

His father summons the first demon, large and imposing; it burns like hot coals and glows red. It rears its head and looks directly at Saburouta, horns imposingly close to his face before it huffs and steps back unto its seal - which glows red pulses like a heartbeat. Lines of script scrawl over its skin like a moving page in a book.

His brothers summon the second and third - a large, long legged vulture that drips water and a turtle-like demon with jaws more befitting a crocodile. They also step into their respective seals that glow blue and yellow in turn.

Saburouta chants the summoning verse, a blade held up to his palm, ready to cut, eyes intent on the circle on the floor that has been purposefully left blank.

Upon his second recital, lines begin to emerge, and - still chanting, not stopping - he kneels to trace them with the coal pencil, held in his now bleeding right hand. Soot and blood and gospel.

When he connects the lines of the last symbol, a demon appears - large and slimy, standing on two feet like a man, with a fat fleshy tail and webbed fingers and two sets of eyes - one above the mouth and one below.

“Show me proof of your lineage,” it says calmly, and Saburouta holds his bloody hand out. The demon grabs it with its cold, soft fingers, looking at the blood closely. “It is truth, you are Toudou. And I will serve you until you die. You know what is expected of you, and you know what happens if you fail to abide.”

“I do,” Saburouta confirms. His heart is racing and he feels cold sweat break out over his skin.

“Then our bond is forged, and we must seal it,” the demon says. It lets go of Saburouta’s hand and splits open the skin of its own paw. Saburouta turns to pick up the two silver chalices.

Into one he pours his own blood, and into the other drips the demon’s. Half-full. With their limbs crossed, they drink the blood of the other.

It is vile going down, but oddly familiar by now.

At the closing of the ceremony, the demons are all released, leaving Saburouta with his brothers and father.

“Rot,” Raijin says flatly, “very fitting.” And then he exits the room.

“You’re finally a Toudou man, Saburouta,” Waro announces, ruffling his hair. Tsuguro also voices a quiet ‘congratulations’, before they leave as well. And then he is alone.

He doesn’t feel like a man. He feels like he’s running out of time. He feels like he’s wasting away from the inside out.

Out of the five elements… rot. Saburouta laughs quietly, the sound bouncing off the wall uncomfortably. Very fitting indeed.

\--

“Dad, I’m scared of grandpa...” Homare says one evening as Saburouta helps her with homework. At her words, he freezes up. “He’s got a mean face and a scary voice… I don’t like it when we have to eat with him… can’t we eat by ourselves? Or maybe with Aya-san, she’s nice...”

Saburouta opens and closes his mouth. What can he even say? He’s scared of Raijin too. His father is tall, burly and imposing. And his personality is… less than friendly. Not to mention… everything that’s happened between Saburouta and his father. Pins and needles prick his back at his rising anxiety.

“H-he is kind of scary, isn’t he?” Saburouta says softly, “You don’t have to hang out with him, darling. Grandpa doesn’t have time for that, your aunts and uncles can watch you… They’re not scary, right? If you only meet grandpa at dinner, it’s fine, right?”

Homare hums thoughtfully, fiddling with the pencil in her hands, “I guess…” but she’s still frowning.

“You’re such a brave girl, Homare,” Saburouta says, trying to distract her, “I’m always so impressed by you~”

Now- a sliver of her smile as she turns to the side shyly. She lifts the pencil, seemingly ready to go back to her writing practice, but then pauses again-

“Grandpa won’t hurt me, right?” she asks, looking at him with wide eyes.

Saburouta feels nauseous. He feels so very, very nauseous.

“N-no, he won’t. Why would he?” Saburouta tries to play off, but his mind is spinning like a top, “Did- did he say something to you?” a knot of panic, stuck in his throat at the very thought of it. At the thought of Raijin raising his voice, at raising a hand against Homare.

“No...” Homare says, looking away, “he didn’t.”

Saburouta breathes a sigh of relief. But vows to try and limit the interactions between Homare and his father. He wants him nowhere near her.

“Dad?” Homare asks, pulling his attention back to the present, “Grandpa won’t hurt you either, right?”

Saburouta tastes bile at the back of his throat. “No, he won’t,” he lies through his teeth. On the next inhale, his side aches where his ribs have long healed but remain scarred.

\--

The gloom lasts him all summer and continues into the autumn months. Saburouta still spends what time he can with Homare, tries to maintain at least some semblance of cheer and happiness with her. He wants her to get through this alright. Wants her to not live in pain.

Some of the family are good help with that - his aunts and uncles and even his brother’s wives are happy to take care of Homare whenever Saburouta is too busy, and Homare takes a liking to helping Aya with the housework, such as doing the laundry and cleaning, if only because Aya lets her eat the cookies before they’ve fully cooled and gets her favourite sweets whenever she goes grocery shopping.

Saburouta is immensely thankful to them all; and he thanks them profusely for the help every time he asks for it, or when they offer it. So, Homare is coping. She’s accepted that this is life now, that Makoto is gone. Lately, she’s been smiling as well, which brightens Saburouta’s day whenever he is there to see it.

His daughter truly is the only good thing left in his pathetic life. He feels as if he’s falling down an endless pit. Work leaves him haggard and exhausted, and to make it worse he hasn’t had a good night's sleep in… in forever, it seems like. His appetite is failing, his attention is failing, his will to live if failing.

It’ll be half a year soon. It’s not even about the one death anymore. It’s everything before and after and around it. He just can’t take it; and nobody seems to understand that, and there is no respite.

He’s sitting listlessly in the little library of the house, reading some foreign classic literature and missing every word on the page.

"Quit being so down, Saburouta," Tsuguro says, appearing seemingly out of thin air, with an unwarranted hand on his shoulder, "Makoto-san wouldn't want you to mope around like this. You need to regain your vitality, for her and for Homare. I’m saying this as your older brother, I know these things. Just… let it go. Get over it. You can’t hold on to grief for forever."

Saburouta remains quiet, eyes fixed on the middle of the page. After a moment, Tsuguro sighs and starts to walk away. As if released from a spell, Saburouta turns his gaze to glare daggers into his retreating back.

" _You didn't know her_ ," he seethes on the inside, " _and you don't know me_. _You can shove that advice down your throat and die choking on it._ "

He can all but see Tsuguro patting himself on the back for... what Tsuguro thought to be a good older brother moment, probably. What _bullshit_. Tsuguro is part of the problem, just like the rest of them. Every last thing in this cursed house is rotten and decrepit.

He wants _out_.

\--

There’s a knock on Saburouta’s door. Tiredly, he turns in his seat to look at the door. “Come in,” he says.

The door opens, and Homare peeks in, “Dad?”

Unbidden, Saburouta’s cool expression grows warmer as he smiles at her, “What is it, darling?”

“Come with me,” she says very seriously, “I have something to show you!”

Briefly, Saburouta looks back at the desk where the paperwork he’s filling out sits. He’s made a small indent in the pile, but there’s still a lot to do.

He could never say no to Homare, though. “Alright,” he says as he stands, his back and limbs stiff from sitting down for so long, “what is it?”

“Come,” she says, avoiding the question. She grabs his hand and leads him - not to her room, as he’d expected, but down the stairs and into the kitchen. Aya’s standing by the counter with a fond smile on her face, and on the counter…

There’s a very obviously homemade cake, with the candles ‘4’ and ‘0’ on it.

“Ta-da!” Homare exclaims with a big smile, then she points at Aya and they both exclaim, “Happy birthday!” as Aya pops a tube of confetti.

Saburouta stands, stupefied and confused. October? It’s October already? Time keeps running away from him. It feels like it had just been August. It feels like it had just been June. The last half year is a dark, blurry mess.

“Aren’t you happy?” Homare asks, the smile turning fragile on her face as Saburouta takes too long to process.

“I- I’m so happy I froze up and forgot how to move,” Saburouta says, forcing a wide smile onto his face. He picks Homare up under her arms and spins her around, making her giggle, “Did you two do all this? Oh, I’m so happy to see it! I even forgot it was my birthday, but you remembered it for me~!”

“Yes!” Homare squeals, before he sets her down gently. She scurried over to Aya and picks something up - a small box with a bow on it, “And I made you this!”

“Oh gosh, thank you,” Saburouta says as he accepts the box - it’s very light.

“Open it!” Homare says, all but bouncing on her feet.

Saburouta does, gently - there’s a charm inside. He looks at it with surprise.

“It’s a charm for happiness! I made made in school, the teacher helped me,” Homare babbles, “It will make you happy and get rid of all the bad stuff and also bring luck! Do you like it?”

Saburouta feels a knot in his throat. On the one hand, obviously he’s not as good as keeping his general state secret as he thought, but on the other, this is such a touching gesture and he is about to cry. “I-I love it, honey. It’s perfect, thank you!” he kneels down to hug her.

“I knew you would,” Homare announces happily. When they part after the hug, she looks at him with all the seriousness that a six year old can manage, “You have to wear it all the time! Even when you sleep and when you go to work.”

“I will,” he assures, “I will wear it forever and ever.”

Satisfied with the answer, Homare nods.

“Shall we light the candles and eat some cake?” Aya asks.

“Yeah!” Homare exclaims with glee, and Saburouta nods with a smile.

\--

Saburouta dismays. His gloom isn’t lifting. Time isn’t healing him. He’s getting worse and worse. Can’t even take care of himself. Can’t eat, can’t sleep. Can’t focus at work, can’t stomach getting berated for slacking off without breaking down.

He’s erratic, he’s nervous, he’s tearful. He’s smoking like a chimney and the smell of smoke clings to his skin and hair and room and everywhere.

He’s at the end of his rope. He hates it here; it’s suffocating and terrible and endlessly painful. He needs help, but- but he doesn’t have anyone he trusts to ask for it and even if he did, he wouldn’t know how to start.

And at the back of his head - Lucifer’s stupid fucking offer.

‘ _Would you join me at my side if I were to ask it? Would you cast your current life away for me? I would reward you, respect you, cherish you as my own, I would have you leave True Cross and your family behind-_ ’

How could Lucifer say that he wants Saburouta? No one _wants_ Saburouta, least of all himself. It must be a joke, or perhaps a mistake. Maybe Lucifer mistook him for one of his brothers. Maybe Lucifer can see him now and thinks it’s funny.

And yet...

He’s waiting. Like a stupid fucking idiot, he’s waiting for Lucifer to call on him again. A dog waiting for a bone that might never come.

Well… what else does he have left?

\--

Everyone has habits. Some people will sit in the same booth at a cafe and order the same item every time they come. Some people jiggle the doorknob twice after locking the door. Some people pick their nose or masturbate every night before sleep.

Saburouta sits in the bath for hours upon hours after each day shift. If he needs to get clean quick in between assignments, he'll shower, twenty minutes tops.

But a bath is his luxury. In his bathroom, in privacy, he can indulge. This is something he’s done since he can remember.

The hot water loosens his body - the tightness of his trapezius from pulling in on himself, his calves from being on his legs half the day, his hands from filing paperwork the other half. The steam loosens his mind. It’s always wonderfully blank as he soaks.

He has a newer, supplementary habit now. For now he lounges in the bath, head tilted back against the lip of it, legs bent just slightly at the knee so that he fits lengthwise, one arm resting over his chest, half submerged, and the other - hanging over the edge, holding a blade.

Now, Saburouta doesn’t care why other people cut themselves. For him it’s a release, sort of like an orgasm. When it all gets too much and he feels like screaming his throat raw, he does this. When he’s so frustrated it brings tears to his eyes, he does this. When he’s so sad he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he does this.

He holds the blade in a loose grip, runs his thumb across the divots and screw-heads, against the sculpted, claw-shaped metal handle. He stole it from Waro at the beginning of the summer soon after moving back in on a whim, and by some strange stroke of luck, his brother thought it went missing. He was super bummed out for a while because it was a gift from grandfather. No one knows that Saburouta has it now, and he _appreciates_ that.

He uses it rarely. He uses it sparingly. There’s only so many places to cut that won’t be seen, and only so deep he can cut so as to not endanger his life.

Stupid Saburouta. Pathetic Saburouta. Always getting it wrong, always bad and never good, never satisfactory. His grip on the knife tightens, knuckles turning white as his breath shakes.

He needs this. Needs the temporary relief it gives. It’s not good for him. It’s not sustainable. Just like the smoking. He doesn’t care.

Saburouta sighs long and tense, opens his eyes finally. The ceiling is so terribly, emptily white. He flips the catch of the knife, and the blade springs out in a beautiful arc. It’s small and delicate, but strong. Damascus steel. It cost grandfather a fortune, but it cost Saburouta _nothing_.

He brings the blade to the skin of his thigh, resting the tip in the space between two pink scars.

And then, Saburouta cuts.

\--

He’s been struggling with this particular pursuit lately due to… a whole myriad of things, really. His interest wavered, for a brief moment in the darkness of his mind, but it never went out. He’s kept his studies and research and reading up. He’s never stopped, even if he’d slowed down.

Saburouta’s trying again tonight - perhaps his most ambitious pursuit yet.

Saburouta will either succeed or die. It’s, arguably, a win-win situation.

An obscure summoning ritual it had taken a month to translate and piece together in a way that made sense. Another two months to find everything he needed to perform it. A week to plan the execution of it.

He slits the throat of the last sacrifice, and the blood from it runs towards the centre of the circle through a groove Saburouta carved in the floor, to the hole located there. A cast iron podium sits half submerged in sanguine. On the podium, arranged in a circle is a large golden coin, the skull of a Burmese python and an ornate jewel dagger.

Saburouta starts chanting. He’s been practicing ever since he translated it and decided he would try to perform this ritual. At first nothing visible happens, but an oppressive atmosphere gathers within the room, and the smell of sulphur permeates the air.

The sacrifices shrivel up like mummies, dried out and stiff. The blood within the pit begins to churn and boil. The podium melts, the objects that were on it sink down as if into the blind depths of a bog hole.

On the final verse, something starts to emerge from the blood. First come large, coiling horns. Black as coal, shiny like melting ice. Then comes a large, furry head – that of an Ibex, eyes closed, nostrils flaring as smoke comes from them. The upper body, leathery and shiny like covered in oil, deceptively human-like except for the hands - more like paws stretched out to seem hand-like, with ominous black claws. The lower body, with double jointed legs and hooves and a long, whipping tail.

By the time Saburouta can see all of the being, the blood has evaporated and it stands in the centre of the summoning circle. Opens its eyes slowly to reveal golden irises, horizontal pupils.

“I know you,” it says in a voice that’s low like thunder, like cannon-fire underwater.

Saburouta swallows, at once reminded of the other demon who claimed to know him and how well _that went_ , “You know me?”

“Yes,” it says. It feels wrong hearing human words coming out of an animal’s lips, “Saburouta Toudou. The cannibal that tries to bind demons to himself forcefully by eating them. A profuse slaughterer. The black sheep of your family. The outcast. Should I go on?”

“No, that’s… ” he pauses. Blood is rushing in his ears, “That’s enough.”

“How pitiable you are,” the demon says. It shakes its head quickly and its ears twitch - the action entirely animal. “They ignore you in Assiah. But, insignificant little speck that you are, you’ve turned some heads in Gehenna. Some lesser demons dread being summoned by you,” then it laughs, a booming sound that makes Saburouta’s bones vibrate, “but, personally, I find your tenacity and aims amusing.”

Saburouta takes a moment to absorb what it’s saying.

“Most exorcists balk at the idea of possession, live in fear that their minds will be so weak that they fall into temptation,” the demon says, stepping out of the hole, its black, shiny hoof clicking gently against the concrete, “but you’re foolish enough to pursue it. Quite desperately. Why is that?”

There is no use lying to this thing, Saburouta thinks. It would know. “It feels good… and I just… I want it,” he says, so soft that the sound barely carries. But the demon has no trouble hearing it - it tilts its head to the side in silent judgement.

"I never understood..." Saburouta whispers, "I thought that weak and vulnerable people like me would be an easy target for demons. But I never felt those whispers and temptations that the other exorcists seemed to talk about. No shadows ever tempted me to kill, or steal, or… whatever it is they tempt the others to do..."

"You weren't weak in the way that makes you vulnerable to a demon," the thing says, almost chuckling, "You were weak only on the surface, your spirit was always bigger and more malevolent than could be contained within the likeness of man."

It pauses to study him with a cold, analysing gaze.

"The darkness within you... was self-sufficient. There simply was no space for a demon," it says, looking at him calmly as he takes a step forward and finally breaches the protective barrier he set up around his workspace.

"And if I consume you? If I make that space?" Saburouta asks. He feels like a live wire.

"Then I'll be a part of you," it answers. There is no fear and pleading. The beast stares back at him – understanding and accepting what is about to happen.

"How much do I need?" He eyes the demon up and down. It's quite tall. His teeth ache at the idea, but he'll wear them down to his gums if he has to.

"Not everything. Just the important bits," it says, “the heart, the brain, the blood.”

"I hope you don't mind the pain," Saburouta says in a soft voice.

"My whole existence centres around pain, human,” it chuffs like a goat, ”This will be nothing.”

\--

It’s different this time. He’s done a few times, and it was never like this. The nausea doesn’t set it the first day. And it doesn’t set in when he wakes in the morning. He’d… he’d been able to _sleep_ before. And it- the demon hadn’t disturbed his dreams.

Instead it has settled, a heavy and warm weight in his belly. Not resisting, not thrashing. Thrumming softly against his spine and ribs - he feels it more intensely the harder he focuses. Saburouta wants to ask why. It doesn’t make sense. The others resisted, they clawed their way up his throat and out. He could not hold them down.

But… this demon is…

Well, he’ll take it. Fuck, he’ll take whatever he gets. The demon is his now. They share blood, they share soul. He made that space in his darkness, and it slipped right in and curled up like a cat, against his diaphragm, against his beating heart. He doesn’t need to understand it.

Saburouta walks into the bathroom to shave before he gets ready for work, and spooks upon coming eye-to-eye with his reflection. His eyes aren’t brown - but an eerie golden colour, the pupils standing out far too much.

“Shit,” he mutters leaning in to get a better look. Worried, he checks over his head and back in case there’s something else off. Sighs in relief upon finding no horns or tail.

Still, he can’t really go out with his eyes like this. There has to be a way to get them back to normal, if only he could figure it out…

Saburouta squeezes his eyes shut, trying to imagine how they looked before. Dark brown, almost black. The iris indistinguishable from the pupil. He holds onto the thought for as long as he can.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re not gold. Rather - a bronzy sort of colour. Someways in between. Saburouta bites his lip worriedly - and notices his canines being more pronounced than they should be - this should be passable, right?

Unless someone leans in really close, they shouldn’t notice the change. And no one’s ever given him the time of day, so it should be more than okay.

\--

As he expected, the forced possession gives him certain benefits. His physical and magical stamina improves. Seals and summons that used to leave him breathless and exhausted are now hardly a bother.

He feels like movement and strength in his bad hand has improved as well - he doesn’t feel the need to take as many breaks to do stretches when he’s filling out paperwork. There’s less aches and pains in general as well.

He just… he just feels a lot better, physically, and it improves his mental state as well. Better sleep, better appetite, better focus. There’s… a dark sort of glee in his heart over it. He _can_ deal with everything that’s going on in his life. This is just the little boost he needed.

But there’s a curiosity growing. How far does this go? Just how much has the demon changed him?

He’s itching to try it out, to take it to the limit - he just doesn’t know _how_. Going off by himself during a mission doesn’t seem like a wise choice - and there’s always the off-chance that he would be spotted. No… Saburouta needs to take it slow, needs to think it through…

\--

Or not.

A chance presents itself, almost too neatly packaged to be real. There’s a few men harassing what looks like a college student. Saburouta steps right in.

“What’s going on here?” he asks, loud and _confident,_ and boy does it feel good-

“Nothing much, we’re just having a chat. Kindly fuck off,” one of the men says. The student makes eye contact with Saburouta, seemingly panicked.

“Aw, but I like chatting as well,” Saburouta says in a fake-disappointed voice, “come now, gentlemen, I’m sure I’m a better conversation partner than that kid there. Why, his mother’s milk is still drying on his lips.”

“Oh, you think you’re so funny, huh?” a different man asks, rounding on Saburouta, “get the fuck out. This is your last warning, wiseass. And I promise, we won’t go easy on you.”

Saburouta feels excitement. He feels his fingers itch to use these men as his guinea pigs, to test his skills and control.

“Oh, I would never want you to go easy on me, sweetheart,” he says in a mocking, cooing voice, “It just wouldn’t be fair, you know?”

“Alright dude, you obviously have a death wish,” the man closest to the student says, releasing the young man’s collar. The student slides down the wall into a crouch, eyeing the men fearfully, but none of their attentions are on him.

Saburouta gestures with a cock of his head for the kid to scram. Which he does, looking back only once when he’s at the mouth of the alley.

And then they’re alone. Saburouta smiles widely, pleasantly, “Maybe I do have a death wish, but I don’t see anything to worry about here.”

And then- violence.

Oh, violence has never felt this good. The men’s bones, they break easily with Saburouta’s newfound strength, and their skin parts easily under his claws and fangs. They never even realised they didn’t stand a chance.

They don’t live to tell the tale.

Saburouta stands over them, panting hard. His teeth feel large and obtrusive in his mouth, his hands and… everything are coated in blood. He feels…

He feels really good. He feels _alive_.

He needs to get rid of the bodies. He looks over the meat and bone, trying to gauge how many hellhounds it would take to eat it all up. Three would probably cut it, but he summons four just in case. Stands at the mouth of the alley and smokes to make sure no one enters while they eat.

The hounds make surprisingly quick work of it - in about twenty minutes there is no bone, no sliver of meat left. They even lick the blacktop, looking for the last dregs of blood.

“Mm, did you have a good meal, girls?” he asks them with a coo; and they stare back at him with their beady black eyes, keening. Such they are - forever starving, always down for a morsel or two, or ten. “Who’s a good doggy?” Their tails wag as they walk on closer, butting his legs and vying for attention and a good scratch behind the ear. They sniff and lick at his pants, the blood soaked into them.

After some petting, he releases the demons and looks over the alley, satisfied. That should do it. Now he just needs to change before going home.

\--

That night, Saburouta can’t sleep. Once the moment had passed, his actions caught up to him.

The brutality. The callousness. The way he had enjoyed it so fully. He didn’t know he was capable of… being like that.

But then, maybe it’s not that surprising either. Murder has been just a tool to him for a while now, and he’d somehow made it seem as if it were okay to commit it for his rituals, but not for any other reason…

But does he really need to draw a distinction like that? Is there a good death and a bad death? A useful and a useless death? Not really, death is just death, no adjectives needed. He killed men today. He’s killed men before. What’s the difference?

Well, the enjoyment. He had fun today, instead of feeling like he was just doing a duty. That’s it.

Saburouta sits on the edge of his bed, studying his fingertips. Blunt, round, _human_ nails. No hint of the claws he’d sported just a few hours before. They’d appeared seemingly by themselves and he’d struggled for half an hour to get them to go away.

Well, he’ll work on the appearance thing. He’ll work on the control. He has time.

\--

And before he knows it, it’s November. Time keeps running, and Saburouta’s playing catch-up and juggle with everything. It’s leagues easier than summer and early autumn, but still not quite _easy_.

He’s been managing more time with Homare lately, for which they’re both happy. He helps her with homework and they go on walks and sometimes play together too. Homare is genuinely the best thing in his life and he would not hesitate to die for her or kill for her.

So, it’s understandable that when he overhears Waro raising his voice at Homare, Saburouta drops everything to rush over.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he strides into the library.

“ _Now_ you show up!” Waro says, long-suffering, “And where were you just five minutes ago? Your brat here, who you left unsupervised by the way, broke the display stand!”

Indeed, the stand is knocked over and the glass panel broken, the family heirlooms spilled over the marble like discarded toys.

“Are you okay, Homare? You didn’t cut yourself on the glass, did you?” Saburouta asks, kneeling besides her and checking her over.

“She’s _fine_ ,” Waro says with a roll of his eyes, “but the display isn’t.”

“It’s just some glass and wood,” Saburouta retorts, “the relics are fine.”

“You think dad’s gonna see it that way? He’ll be pissed off with the both of you,” Waro replies coldly.

Saburouta tenses up at the words. “Homare, darling, go up to your room, won’t you?”

She looks at him with guilty, wet eyes and nods, not saying anything. She retreats from the room, looking far smaller than she is.

Rage. That’s what he feels now.

Saburouta stands up at full height - he’s the shortest of the three brothers, and it has always been apparent, “It’s just a little accident, Waro. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Yeah, but it happened to her, cause you just let her do whatever with no consequences. Kids’ll take a mile if you give them an inch. You gotta be more firm, punish her when she does stuff like this. How the hell do you think she’s gonna grow up, huh? You want a vagrant daughter?”

“Don’t butt in where you aren’t welcome, Waro. Homare is my daughter and how I raise her is _my business_ ,” Saburouta says, feeling heat under his collar.

“Oh, look at you,” Waro says, dangerously, “little Saburouta is finally growing _a spine_. A little late, don’t you think?” he steps closer, crunching a shard of glass with the sole of his shoe, and Saburouta tries not to flinch at the sound, ”Heh, wonder how long that’ll last. One good scolding from dad and you’ll be back in your place.”

A shiver passes through him at that. Anything but that. God, just the thought has his blood boiling in fear.

“What? Nothing to say anymore?” Waro asks, “You were mouthing off something wicked just a second ago. Cat got your tongue, bro?” He shoves at Saburouta’s shoulder, and he takes a faltering step back.

“Just leave Homare out of this,” he says, through gritted teeth and a stiff tongue.

“Ah? Do you want me to say that you broke the display? Dad’ll go harder on you, you know. You’re not a kid anymore, and should know better,” Waro says. Then, he laughs, “I mean I can do it for you, as a favour, if you want it so bad,” Waro shoulders past him roughly with a mean chuckle, ”It’ll be kind of funny to see him slap you silly after all this time. Hope you don’t cry as fucking ugly as you used to.”

And then he’s gone; and Saburouta’s standing there staring at the glass shards with his knuckles clenched so hard they’re bone white. Indignant, full of futile rage, for he doesn’t dare to raise a hand against his family - and yet -

And yet he yearns to. He _could_. Not all of them at once, but he’s sure he could take them on in a fight.

_There’s a thought._

But… he doesn’t dare. A lifetime of punishment and discipline still his hand. Too vibrant are the memories for him to fight back confidently. After everything he’s learned and done, he still feels like the same kid that he used to be.

But it’s a fear that he’s working on and one that is shrinking day by day, overshadowed by his indignity and anger. One day soon, he’ll stand up to them.

But for now, he goes to get a broom and dustpan so that he can clean this mess up.

\--

The night he’s been waiting for comes at last.

Saburouta walks down the corridor of his dream with determination.

Again the door opens with the most horrid of screeches, and again Lucifer is a fiery ball of light far above. His wings shift and quiver, the feathers knocking together like rustling leaves, like tinkling bells.

“I sense you’ve made your choice,” Lucifer says, sounding pleased.

“I have. I’ll do anything to shed this life, to shed these chains,” Saburouta replies.

“Soon, there will come a moment of upheaval so strong that we can start to move. Begin to plan now, and when the time comes, do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done?” Saburouta asks, somewhat confused, somewhat dreading the answer.

“You know,” Lucifer says gently, “You’ve been craving for it a long time, I know. This is the sign you’ve been waiting for.”

Like last time, Lucifer’s form fades out - a light that dies and leaves Saburouta in darkness.

The sign he’s been waiting for.

The thing he’s been craving a long time now.

Saburouta _knows what it is_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a horrible ride huh? Downright painful to write. But we're going full bastard at long last. There is no turning back and no redemption from here on out.
> 
> Next chapter we have murder spree and arson! :D


	7. Beyond malevolence: And after the storm came a strange calm, as if the earth was healing from the poison of the roots of the great tree which had fallen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saburouta transforms and leaves the past in ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: whole bunch of murder and arson.
> 
> LET'S FUCKING GO TIME TO KILL OFF THE WHOLE FAMILY WHOOOOO

Saburouta’s been rotting for a long time now. Ever since he can remember, long before it became apparent, even to himself. It’s not something he can reverse, or even stop.

He’s not sure he even wants to. Oh, maybe he wants _more_.

More darkness in his heart, more blood on his hands, more hatred flowing through his veins, more power, more respect, more fear.

He’s always been meek and small and insignificant. But he's done with that _shit_. Now he wants to be something else. He wants to leave everything behind. He wants to be free.

\--

He’s been planning ever since Lucifer gave him the sign. At first, it had been feverish, excited, clumsy. But then he stepped back, took a breath, and looked at the problem clearly.

Today there was a feeling, early in the morning, and he does not know how but he knows it is _The Day_. Homare’s away, staying the night over at an aunt’s, so Saburouta can do what he needs to freely. Any loose ends will be tied off afterwards, in due time.

First off, he’s already killed his brother’s wives, their bodies left in their respective rooms, and the housemaid. It’s not that she deserved it, it’s just that she would have gotten in his way if she were to survive and witness what comes next. Aya’s always been nice to Saburouta and to Homare, but she’s _loyal_ to dad, and that just won’t do.

Second, he’s opened up the gas pipe in the basement, just the slightest bit. All the windows are closed. Even now, the basement air fills with methane and the smell of sulphur. He has hours until the saturation is right, and he’ll light the spark when it’s time.

Saburouta’s getting the stuff he wants saved from his room now- he’ll hide his journals and books in the safe with the other ‘important documents’. He considered hiding them in the trunk of the car, but that would be too suspicious if found.

Of course, nothing ever really goes as Saburouta wants it to. Waro shows up earlier than expected.

“What is this shit?” Saburouta hears him from the corridor leading to the study. The ‘shit’ in question being the boxes Saburouta had put in the corridor to carry.

Saburouta grimaces, tries to think his way out of this.

“Hey, Aya? Aya, is this your stuff?” there’s a pause as Waro rummages through the nearest box, “Hey, this book here! Where did you find it? This isn’t the kind of stuff you can leave lying around!”

“Aya’s doing the laundry now, Waro,” Saburouta says nonchalantly, coming up behind him. “What is that?”

Aya’s in the laundry room with a slit throat and a half-programmed wash cycle. And the book Waro’s holding is Saburouta’s. Illegal summoning rituals, including the one he used to get the demon he ate.

“Some sick shit,” Waro responds with a sneer, turning his back to Saburouta and picking up one of the boxes, “I don’t know where she dug it up, but it needs to _go_. Come, help me get rid of this.”

“Okay,” Saburouta says, pulling his switchblade from his pocket and releasing the blade. It’s alright, long as he doesn’t hit the bone. The flesh and blood will all burn away. He just has to avoid getting any on himself or the books. “Where should we take it?” he asks in a small voice, coming up closer. He poises the knife to stab Waro in the back, below the ribs. He’ll hit the kidney if he’s lucky.

And then, with a single, powerful thrust, he slides the blade deep. There’s a moment of silence, before Waro lets out this high-pitched groan. He drops the box.

“What the fuck-!” he gasps out. Saburouta _twists_ the blade, feels something part within the wound.

“Shush, don’t scream,” Saburouta says softly in Waro’s ear. “I’ll make it quick, okay?”

“Saburouta, what-” Waro starts, but stops short when the blade inside him shifts again. Then, he turns around so sharply the Saburouta lets go of the blade accidentally. Fuck.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Waro asks. He looks terribly pale. It must hurt a lot.

Saburouta looks at him in innocent confusion, pretending nothing is wrong, “Come on, Waro. I’m just trying to help with the boxes like you asked. Are you alright?” He steps closer with open arms, posture unimposing.

“No, I’m-” Waro pauses, confusion flitting over his face, “did you just do something to me?”

Saburouta’s face is a picture of hurt surprise and concern, “Waro, what are you talking about? Wh-?” he stops short, frowning deeply, “Why would you think that? What’s going on?”

“I- no, you-” Waro fumbles, letting his guard down, “I don’t get it. You just said ‘I’ll make this quick’!”

“I didn’t,” Saburouta says, with the most sincere worried expression he can manage right now. “Waro, what’s going on?”

“You did!” Waro exclaims, his confusion turning to irritation. Then he turns to get at his side, feeling around for the blade-

And Saburouta body slams him to the ground. The blade goes impossibly deeper, but Waro’s agonised scream is cut short by Saburouta gripping his throat hard enough to cut off circulation and air.

“You’re so _gullible_ ,” Saburouta laughs. Waro thrashes under him, bucking and kicking and clawing for his life. It’s useless, considering Saburouta’s unfair physical advantage, but it’s an admirable effort. “You know resistance is futile, right?” he leans in close, watches as Waro’s face turns an ugly shade of red and the other struggles to focus on Saburouta’s face. “You won’t get out of this. I want you to accept that, _brother_.”

Waro stops fighting after a minute. One of his hands grips Saburouta’s wrist weakly, as his red-purple face shifts into pleading, into voiceless _begging_. He’s never begged Saburouta for anything before. It makes Saburouta’s heart flutter with joy as he looks on. A blood vessel in Waro’s eye must have popped, his sclera is so _red_.

“Don’t worry, Tsuguro and dad will join you soon,” Saburouta whispers as Waro goes weaker and weaker - and then limp, completely. He keeps choking for a while longer just to make sure he’s really unconscious, and then crushes his trachea to seal the deal. The cartilage crunches, the sound muffled through the skin.

Waro won’t be waking up from that.

Four down, two to go. Saburouta laughs quietly as he sits back and breathes deeply. Oh, this evening is going _wonderfully_ so far.

Saburouta carries Waro to the study, and arranges him on the floor artfully. Pulls his knife out gingerly - only a third of the hilt is outside. Wipes if off against Waro’s coat and puts it back in his pocket - he’ll need it for later.

He still has some time before Tsuguro comes home, he should move the rest of the boxes and get ready to, heh, _receive_ him.

Disposing of Tsuguro is easier. Saburouta waits in a cove for him to pass by and slits his throat from behind. It’s quiet, it’s quick. Tsuguro turns around in confusion and looks on at Saburouta, uncomprehending, hand to the gash that’s spouting blood like a fountain. He seems to have nicked only the right carotid, Saburouta notes as he watches the spray stain the carpet, but it’s good enough. Still fatal.

Tsuguro retreats from Saburouta fearfully as he coughs, blood flooding into his airways through the gash.

He’s slow and _clumsily_ , first staggering backwards and then sliding along on his ass when he falls over after catching on a cabinet in the hall, leaving a smudged trail of blood.

He’d be asking questions if he could. Would be cursing. But there’s something… magical about the quiet. About the fact that he can only watch on in confusion, his ability to speak - taken from him.

Saburouta follows him lazily, stepping over the mess, smiling all the while. He doesn’t say anything either. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t _need to_. Actions speak louder than words, and everything they’ve _said_ to him is now being _said_ right back, all at once.

Some blood gets on the hem of Saburouta’s trousers, and even though it’s not visible since they’re black, he still sniffs in distaste.

Tsuguro’s body is harder to haul when he finally succumbs to the bloodloss, but Saburouta manages to put him in his room, by the window. ‘Oh, he tried to get out of the house in time,’ Saburouta mock-thinks, ‘but it was already too late!’

He unlatches the window halfway, but leaves it closed. Tsuguro _almost_ made it. So sad.

And then… one more left.

Saburouta sits, waiting for dad to come home. He usually makes it back by eight, ten if he goes drinking with his buddies. If he comes home sober, this will be harder. If he comes home drunk, this will be easier. It's a guessing, waiting game.

He’s put a record on softly in the background- one of those old, foreign ones that father loves. Not the smooth jazz, but something a little more rock-like, with gentle, low male vocals. He has no idea what the name is, as it’s in Cyrillic, but he likes this one.

Saburouta’s spread out on one of the sofas lazily. He has his boots on and up on the cushions. It’s a little disrespectful, but then again, compared to everything else he’s doing today… It just helps drive the point home. He’s casting his shackles off today. He either does it completely or not at all. And he’s already _started,_ so.

He goes over the plan again. Goes over how to act afterwards, what to say. He’s worked with plenty of truly distraught and traumatised people as an exorcist and has a whole lifetime of sadness and trauma for inspiration. Saburouta is confident in his abilities as an actor.

He’s thought of _everything_. And he’s going to get away with it.

And the front door unlocks at long last - he hears it over the music. Saburouta gets to his feet and heads over slowly.

He smiles as he hears stumbling and slurred cursing. Oh, this will be easy after all. He’s a little disappointed, but he’s… not. He’s still getting what he _wants_.

“Hey, dad?” he starts, walking towards him.

Raijin Toudou is a large man. A well-renowned and respected exorcist. Someone who’s entire life has been dedicated to his work and his family. Saburouta knows him only as a mean and despicable man with a foul temper, prone to over drinking and over smoking and bouts of violence. A terrible father, all in all.

“Saburouta?” Raijin slurs, looking over, squinting, his glasses slipped down on his nose precariously, “What is it, boy? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Ah, s-sorry,” Saburouta says, timid. “I just- I wanted to get your opinion on something? If that’s okay? I mean, it can- it can wait, too-”

Raijin snorts derisively, obviously annoyed, “Well then - get on with it!” he says with a hint of impatience. He reeks of booze, leaning heavily against the wall. Probably just waiting for a chance to go lie down and pass out until morning.

“If you could just take a look at this-” Saburouta says, pulling the switchblade and releasing it, “I found it today. I thought it looked familiar, but wasn’t sure if it was the one Waro lost.”

Raijin squints hard before his face morphs into recognition, “Oh, that’s father’s knife! Where in the hell did you find it!?”

“Oh, _you know_ ,” Saburouta says, stepping in close _,_ hand poised and ready- “Same place I hid it.”

He pushes the knife in, aiming above the navel and just to the right of the midline. The thick coat, skin and muscle provide the only real resistance; the intestines part like butter to a hot knife.

There’s a moment of silence, Raijin’s booze-muddled brain struggling to catch up to what’s just happened. Blood starts gushing from the wound with the blade still in.

Saburouta’s nicked the aorta; he laughs breathlessly as he watches it run red and liquid unto the floor. It’s over for Raijin.

“What did you just do, boy?” father asks, shocked and angry, staring at Saburouta’s arm with affront. He doesn’t get it, not really, _not yet_.

“I just killed you,” Saburouta answers, with a manic grin. He side steps while pulling the blade out to dodge in case the wound sprays.

It doesn’t, but it’s still an impressive flow, gurgling and fluctuating like a low-pressure garden hose that’s been cut open. He’ll lose a lot of blood _fast_.

“I don’t understand,” Raijin says, looking down at the growing puddle, bringing one hand to clutch at the fabric over the wound as if that could help him. It won’t – Saburouta will make sure of that.

“I know, dad,” Saburouta says gently, patting his shoulder with mock-affection, wrenching said hand away from the wound with a bone-crushing grip. “but the thing is - you don’t _need_ to understand.”

Raijin falls to his knees a few moments later, quiet. Saburouta drags his barely-conscious body along to the kitchen as it bleeds out, leaving a thick, horrible path.

He’s placed a small pot of water on the unlit (but open) stove and an opened package of ramen by it on the counter. The record still plays softly through the halls. The light is gone from Raijin’s eyes completely by the time Saburouta sets him down. Saburouta looks down at the unconscious body (the fresh corpse?) mock-lovingly. Strokes a hand over Raijin's pallid cheek.

The voice from the record croons quietly through the house. It’s a calm, soothing song. Saburouta hums along. He isn’t sure why, but it seems fitting.

 _And then there were none_.

That’s it for the big stuff. Now he heads up to the second-floor balcony with a pack of cigarettes after removing his boots. The blast will knock him off, but he’ll _miraculously_ survive due to _sheer chance_. He shuts the balcony door behind him and summons a pair of salamanders.

They peer at him with large, yellow eyes, bodies smouldering like hot coals, shiny and glowing like molten rock.

“I want you to go in and make sure the bodies burn hard enough to be _unrecognisable,_ ” he tells them. Opens the balcony door just enough to let them in. They’ll survive the blast, being fire kin. Saburouta lights a cigarette with shaking fingers. It should be enough - the open stove paired with the cut pipe paired with the fact that his entire house of mostly wood.

Any second now.

And then he hears it, feels it. A hard low rumble that gets deafeningly loud in the span of a second-

Saburouta sails through the air, manages to land on his side. Something cracks, and it knocks the air right out of him. Debris lands beside him with terrible thuds, he feels more than hears. His ears are ringing from the blast. Something falls on his leg, sending a horrible jolt of pain up it. Oof, that must have _broken_ something.

But even through the pained haze, he’s still conscious, which is good, because then the salamanders will hide any remaining traces of non-explosion-related causes of death on the bodies. Saburouta lies down still where he’s landed, a smile hidden against the dirt as he listens to the roaring fire, to the crumbling walls.

A symphony to his ears.

An indeterminate amount of time later, there’s sirens. He hears voices and the movement of machinery.

“There’s someone over there!” he hears a voice call out, closer to him, “Help me get this off!” they call out.

Saburouta feels the debris being lifted off, and lets himself go limp, closing his eyes.

“Sir!” the voice says, shaking his shoulder. “Sir, can you hear me?”

“He must’ve been thrown out somehow,” a different voice says.

They shake him again, and Saburouta groans weakly, faking waking up. It’s showtime. “Mwuh,” he groans again, then breathes in sharply as if pained.

“He’s conscious!” the voice calls out, “Get a medic!” then, quieter, aimed at Saburouta, “Sir, can you stand?”

Saburouta groans, shuffling onto his elbows clumsily, looking at the man crouched beside him with confusion, “Wh… What’s going on?”

“There was an explosion,” the man says, “You must’ve fallen out somehow.”

“An explosion?” Saburouta asks, scrambling up clumsily, but then yelping in pain. He cradles his side with one hand, moving slower, more cautiously, “What explosion? H-how?”

“We don’t know yet,” the man answers, helping Saburouta up with a hand under his arm. Saburouta winces and gasps, perhaps a little _dramatically,_ when he puts weight on his injured leg.

“Can you walk?” the man asks.

“I- I think so,” Saburouta says in a shaky voice.

Saburouta recognises one of the neighbours, talking to the emergency services. She’s an older woman, lives alone. He greets her every time he sees her, and she smiles warmly back at him. Now she looks frantic, panicked, as she explains something.

Saburouta makes a show of looking around. “Where’s everyone else?” he asks.

“I’m afraid we haven’t found anyone else, sir. How many people were in the building?”

“Wh-what do you mean you haven’t found anyone else?” Saburouta asks, loud and high pitched.

“I mean there was no one else outside the house. We can’t go in right now, it’s not safe.”

“Not safe…” Saburouta says, wide-eyed, ”There’s- you mean my family is still in there? You need to - oh god, you need to get them out!”

“I’m telling you, it’s not safe to go in,” the man says, his grip on Saburouta’s arm tightening. “Please, sir, calm down! How many people were in the house with you?”

“No no no!” Saburouta says, higher, more _emphatic_ , “My- my father and brothers- and their wives- and- and the housekeeper- you need to get them, please! Oh god, it’s _burning_ , and- and you have to do _something_!”

“We can’t go in,” the man says sternly, “You have to be patient. Please, try to remain calm, sir.”

“But-but there has to be a way!” Saburouta cries, ”If you can’t take the doors, then- then try the windows!”

“We can’t go in because the house might fall apart at any moment. It’s not safe for the rescue services,” the man explains.

“No, it-” Saburouta starts, “no, you have to-” he jerks against the man’s grip, trying to break free, but _not really_ , “I’ll go! I know, dad should be in the study-! And my brothers!” he shakes the man off, starts half-jogging, half-limping towards the burning husk of the house.

“Stop him!” the man yells, and two firemen step out in front of Saburouta, blocking his way.

“Sir, you can’t go in,” one of them says.

“No, I have to! My family is-!”

“No.” the other says, shoving him back. Saburouta falls over backwards with a yelp. “What you _have to_ is let _us_ do our _jobs_ and stay put.”

The man from before hauls Saburouta up, and away, turning him away from the view of the fire, “Come, the medics have to look you over, sir.”

Saburouta digs his heels in, resisting, “But they-! But it’s _burning_ , please!” He likes to think that his voice sounds convincingly desperate. He’s actually having a good time acting here. It’s so easy to get into it. He feels like he’s done this countless times before.

“Sir, just _come with me_.” the man grits out, and Saburouta finally relents, but still follows reluctantly.

They put a splint on his leg, and tell him not to move, because he apparently has rib fractures. They say he’s running on adrenaline, that he’s in psychological shock. He isn’t, not really, but then admitting you’re possessed by a demon and have an inhuman pain tolerance and ability to heal isn’t really a thing one does.

Saburouta stares at the fire - and it’s so beautiful and so big and god, this is amazing- with a growingly uneasy expression. He wiggles in the medic’s grip, bounces his uninjured foot and fiddles his hands endlessly. In all honesty, it’s excitement.

“They must’ve gotten out,” Saburouta tells the medic, who frowns in response. He can’t help it, he wants to mess with them a little more. “They must’ve- tell them to search again. They must’ve got out. There’s a back door. Tell them to look by the back door!” There won’t be anything by the back door. There won’t be anything anywhere.

But her expression is worth it. “Sir, we are doing what we can,” the medic says.

“No, please just. Just look. They could be hurt. They probably need help,” Saburouta says. They’re dead. They’re long dead - charcoal by now. _How blissful_.

The medic sighs, looks over at Saburouta with a pained expression. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll tell them.”

She walks over to one of the firemen and they talk briefly. The fireman makes a ‘are you serious’ kind of gesture, but the medic says something to make him relent. Saburouta suppresses a mean chuckle.

“They’ll check again,” she says when she comes back. “Now, please, stay still, this cut needs stitches.”

Saburouta lets her work in peace. He can feel the pleasant warmth of the fire from over here. But he mustn’t smile.

The fireman comes back after a while. “There wasn’t anyone by the back door,” he says in a voice that sounds like he expected as much.

Saburouta stills, looking at the man with confusion in his features. “No, that’s not- that’s not right.” he says in a small voice. “Did you check everywhere?”

“Yeah,” the fireman says, tone neutral, “We checked all around the house. Didn’t see any people. Just debris and broken glass.”

“No…” Saburouta says, quiet and disbelieving. The confirmation is like a balm to his soul.

“I’m sorry, sir. We checked. There was _no one_ ,” the fireman says firmly, “whoever was in the house with you… they didn’t get out.”

Saburouta sits mutely for a moment. This feels like a good moment to zone out and be unresponsive. People do that when they're overwhelmed- he's seen it. Shell-shocked and catatonic.

“From what your neighbour said about the explosion,” the medic says, gently, “it’s… unlikely that anyone survived.”

Saburouta stays still, fixing his gaze to a point on the ground between his feet mutely.

“Sir,” she says again, putting a hand on his shoulder gently, “you have to consider that they might… be dead.”

Oh, they’re definitely _dead_.

Something in the burning house gives in with a mighty crack, and what’s left of the roof caves in, taking a portion of the facade with it. The fire undulates like it’s alive. The smoke is so dark and thick it blots out the stars.

“Oh god...” he says, barely above a breath, voice wet as he turns his head. It’s the most satisfying thing he’s ever seen! He did that! It’s so _touching_.

He’s crying, but it’s not from loss. He puts his head in his hands, breathes raggedly. Lifts his cracked glasses, rubs at the bridge of his nose, and at his watering eyes. The fire starts looking blurry, almost ethereal.

The medic looks away, giving him some privacy. Saburouta folds over, sobbing out loud into his knees. It’s nice, in a strange way. He hasn’t had a good, satisfying cry in a while. He wants to enjoy this, to really savour it.

His eyes sting. His nose runs. He's every bit a snotty, dishevelled mess who's suffered a great tragedy today.

But on the inside… it's not his family that he's crying over. It's all the years and opportunities he lost for being stuck with them. It's everything he could've been if he'd done this sooner.

It’s the relief – that finally! Finally, he’s free!

"Here," the medic hands him some tissues, and then goes a ways off again. Saburouta blows his nose loudly between sniffles.

"Are you one of the inhabitants?" a new voice asks.

Saburouta looks at him blearily, blinking fast against the burning pain. "Yes," he croaks, voice shaky.

"Can I ask you a few questions about tonight?"

"I'm afraid now's not a good time," the medic interrupts, "he's very upset."

"I- I can answer," Saburouta says in an unsteady voice, wipes at his eyes and sniffles.

They manage to get through the questioning with Saburouta bawling the whole time. It's standard stuff - who else was in the house and asking him here the others could've been so that they might know where to look when they start digging through the rubble.

After he leaves, Saburouta holds his head in his hands, hunched over low. Where no one else can see, he's smiling.

\--

It all works out so much better than expected. When Saburouta learns about Satan and how he had rampaged that _very same night_ , with a blue blaze, he’s so delighted he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Fire! What a coincidence! It’s as if fate itself is helping him cover up the tracks! His father and brothers are just a few names in the long, long list of people dead. They fit right in. And The Order - hah!- The Order consoles Saburouta as another victim!

True, it’s a bummer how much the ranks have thinned and how much work looms on the horizon - to rebuild and restructure and fulfil the duties of The Order…

But Saburouta finds he doesn’t even mind, not really. He’s riding a high he’s never known before. And when the Order arranges a cramped little two room apartment in the city for him and Homare, Saburouta hums a lovely, happy little tune all the while they unpack what little was salvaged from the fire (mostly it’s everything that was in the safe - the family documents and technique textbooks, Saburouta’s books and journals, deeds and other important papers).

They both need a new wardrobe, though, and Saburouta resolves to take Homare shopping in the very near future to sort that out.

Homare herself… while somewhat confused, isn’t really sad. Well, maybe she’s sad about Aya, but not Raijin, Waro or Tsuguro or her aunts. All of Saburouta’s aunts and uncles - the ones not really connected to the main family and who aren’t involved in the world of exorcism, are fine – and they were the ones that watched her most often.

\--

The police department calls him down a few days after the whole ordeal, stating that they’ve recovered the bodies. Six, all in all, completely unidentifiable.

Saburouta takes the day off from work solemnly, and, while Homare is in school, he goes. Preparing for another round of being a grade-A actor.

When he arrives, it is a little jarring. There’s nothing left but black eschar, only vaguely shaped like people. Six forms laid out on long metal tables.

“We can’t tell who’s who,” The pathologist says gently, “but this does seem to account for everyone according to your testimony. I’m sorry about your loss, Toudou-san.”

Saburouta stares at the bodies mutely. They’re right - he doesn’t have the slightest idea who’s who. But, ah, it’s finally sinking in, like a glorious revelation - they’re dead! They’re dead!

They’re dead.

He breathes shakily, pretending to feel faint, “I-I’m sorry, I just- I need a moment.”

“Would you like to sit down?” the pathologist asks, reaching out as if ready to hold him if he were to collapse. Saburouta bends over instead, hands on his knees.

“Y-yes, please,” he says in a small, shaky voice.

The rest goes smoothly - they have him sign some papers, and he does his best to look like he’s holding back tears. Soon enough the death certificates are signed and the pathologist says that they’ll hold on to the bodies until the funeral service, and wishes him a quiet and healing period of mourning.

Saburouta all but skips back to the apartment.

\--

True Cross headquarters are a dark and solemn place, but the Deep Keep is worse. The upper echelons are left almost completely empty. And those who remain insist that Saburouta take up the mantle of Warden, as the last qualified Toudou.

Solemnly, and with a seemingly heavy heart, he accepts. There is no inauguration, there is no fanfare. The plaque on the wall is silently, sadly, replaced with his name, and the faces of the ones lost are displayed in black little frames on the wall of the main hall.

Every time he heads to his new office, he stops to take it all in. Four of the people are actual victims of the blue night. But the three Toudous… Saburouta holds back a smile as he looks the portrait of Raijin straight in the eye.

Even in death, his father scowls disapprovingly. But this time, Saburouta isn’t scared of him.

\--

Letters of condolences keep coming in the mail, appearing on his desk. His brothers and father were much too famous, and Saburouta doesn’t even read them anymore - they all say the same thing.

‘ _This must be a hard time for you… if there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to give me a call…_ ’

Saburouta keeps writing letters of condolence himself - simply for the sake of propriety. Empty words to a child that’s lost a parent to the blue night, or a parent that’s lost a child. It’s all the same, the words but a muscle memory to his hands; and he doesn’t _really care_ about their losses and grief and pain, just wants to appear like he does.

\--

“Would you like to eat out tonight?” Saburouta asks when he goes to pick Homare up from school.

She’s tiny and swaddled in her new winter coat, face all but hidden in the fluffy collar. She gasps at the proposition.

“You mean like a restaurant?” she asks, looking up at him from under the hem of her hat.

“Yes, exactly,” Saburouta says, holding a hand out for her to grab, which she does. “What would you like? Barbecue? Ramen? We can even get dessert afterwards. Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“Hmm...” Homare hums as she tries to come to a decision, “I want ramen! I’m gonna eat thiiiiiis-” she gestures with her hands to indicate a lot “-much.”

“Is that so?” Saburouta chuckles, “You sound very hungry. I suppose lunch was a while ago...”

“Yeah, and we had to run a lot today in p.e. too,” Homare says, “I was so tired! So, now I’m hungry!”

“Makes sense,” Saburouta says with a laugh, “I’d be hungry too! Come, I know a place where they have the best ramen ever!”

“The best?” Homare asks, her eyes wide, “Like, the best in the world?”

“Yes~” he sing-songs, “You deserve it after working so hard today, darling!”

Homare’s smile is wide and genuine.

Saburouta feels happy just looking at it. Right here, right now, he knows - his life is finally taking a turn for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote the whole murder spree very early on because I woke up one morning, chose violence, and typed it all up in one go like a possessed man. It's probably the least edited bit in the whole fic. Came out satisfying on the first run. :D :D :D
> 
> Well - satisfying for me. Hope it was for you too, reader.
> 
> Edit:  
> Btw, to anyone who is curious - the song playing while he murders Raijin is spokoynaya noch by kino. Just. Felt very fitting at the time. 💖


	8. Hidden in plain sight: If you knew what lurks under my skin, you would turn ill.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A monster is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: gore, but nothing worse than in previous chaps
> 
> This is it! This is the last one! Oh boy! Oh wow!  
> It's been an entire ride planning this and writing this and posting this... but I certainly had fun, and I hope you all did too haha

About a month and a half after the blue night, Saburouta gets a call in the middle of the night. He's only able to answer it due to being an extremely light sleeper (and his current bed being an uncomfortable couch).

"...is this Toudou Saburouta?" the voice on the other end asks.

"Yes. Who might you be?" he asks.

"We haven't met, but we have a common… friend," the voice says. It's a smooth male voice with… some kind of accent that Saburouta can't quite place. "And our friend wants us all to meet up. Are you free next Saturday to meet us?"

The way the man had said _'friend'_... Saburouta feels a jolt of pure excitement run through his spine. There’s only one _friend_ he can think of. Is… Is Lucifer finally beginning to move?

Saburouta stays quiet as he frantically runs through his schedule mentally. He has a half shift at the office that day. But…

"At what time?" he asks, " I'll try and make time for it. I would love to meet you… and any other friends."

"There's a handful of us for now," the man says, "but the prospects for growth are good. Come to Aioikai Sumida Hospital. We'll start at 20:00. I hope to see you there, Toudou-san."

The line goes dead. Saburouta brings a fist up, biting the knuckles hard to try and keep his excitement down to a manageable level. He fails. His heart trembles with it; it travels through his body like alcohol, buzzing just under the skin.

Oh..! Soon..!

\--

Saburouta arrives at the designated place at the designated time feeling like a live wire. It's a private clinic - looks incredibly expensive and high end- and Saburouta's glad he put aside a few suits before the fire because he would feel so out of place in plain clothes.

He fumbles into the building and goes to the receptionist with shaking hands, asks for the fake name the man on the phone had given him. She directs him up - to the top floor, and he can barely retain the room number in his head.

He's nervous. He's so nervous. Lucifer, the King of Light and his… friends? Subordinates? Partners? Ah, it doesn't matter what they're called - Saburouta's meeting them.

He stands outside the door, his hand on the knob. Tries to breathe.

(oh god oh god oh god oh god-)

The door opens from within, and Saburouta jumps back.

"It was unlocked," a man says, looking at him with a frown. His gaze travels up and down, stops again at his face. It's unclear what conclusion the man has made, but it's obvious he judged Saburouta. "... You're Toudou, right?"

Saburouta nods, throat dry, "Y-yeah," his voice wobbles oddly from the nerves, "yeah, that's me."

The man nods, nonplussed, and beckons him inside.

There's four people standing, and who is logically Lucifer on the bed. They're all looking at Saburouta, curious.

"Good evening, now that we’re all finally here. I'm Nikolai Eminesc," the man who had opened the door says, "and we’re all here, because Lucifer, King of Light, has deemed us worthy of working with him to change the world.”

Saburouta gulps at the words. That sounds very important and serious. He looks at Lucifer, only to find the demon staring back at him intently. Saburouta isn’t sure what he imagined him to look like - but this isn’t it. Pale and sickly and looking so _weak_ upon the bed, with haunting eyes that pierce right through him. It’s enough to make his hackles rise.

“You finally got it to work,” Lucifer notes quietly, making Saburouta feel like he’s been put under a microscope. Everyone else turns to look. Too much attention on him - it makes his skin crawl.

“G-got what to work?” Saburouta asks, feeling self conscious.

“You forced a demon to possess you,” Lucifer elaborates, “I can see it - right there inside. Sleeping.”

Saburouta brings a hand to his stomach, feeling violated by the staring, “Ah, yeah, I- I did. We had a little chat and- and it agreed to let me...” he trails off, omitting the ‘eat it’. Is it fine to admit that? Is it okay to say?

“Possessed?” Mr. Eminesc asks, his gaze flitting from Saburouta to Lucifer, eyes curious, “What do you mean, sir? He seems… normal.”

“Please, don’t get side-tracked, Dr. Eminesc,” Lucifer says, almost chastising, “We’ll get to that in due time. You know your current duties.”

“Of course, sir, excuse my eagerness,” the man says, backing away. His expression remains vaguely dissatisfied.

“I am glad you’ve found some peace for yourself, Toudou,” Lucifer says with a last glance. He must know - oh, he must know _everything_ that Saburouta’s done. The thought is uncomfortable and sharp. Makes Saburouta feel uncomfortably naked. He shifts on his feet.

“Ah, thank you… sir,” he says, slinking backwards to be closer to the walls, less in the centre of attention. He wants to know - who are the others? What do they do? Are they like him in some way?

“Now, let me start with a little preamble to this meeting,” Lucifer says, “all of you here have been tested by me already and shown potential. I asked if you would give up your old lives for me, and you have said yes. I intend to keep the promises I made to you. All I ask in return - unwavering loyalty and the ability to do what I ask of you.”

There is a moment of silence as the five people standing look around at each other. Saburouta finds their gazes unyielding and sure. He doesn’t feel half as ready as they look, and yet…

He did pass the test. Already, Lucifer has helped liberate him from his chains. He’s willing to do more, to go further. His heart… it has settled.

In fact, it settled the very same night his father’s _stopped_.

“I see no hesitation. Good. As you all know, I have turned away from the True Cross order,” Lucifer says, “they proved their uselessness time and time again, so I have taken the issues into my own hands. Dr. Eminesc was a scientist in their trials for creating new bodies to possess for the Ba’al and for the creation of elixirs for regeneration and healing, but now that they have shut the research down, we will have to continue by ourselves.”

Saburouta feels his heart speed up - that place they went - where he first saw Lucifer, underneath the Asylum… that’s what they were doing here? Creating bodies for the Ba’al? Researching… regeneration?

“Of course, my brother Samael is not pleased with this, and he will seek to meddle in our efforts if he were to get the chance,” Lucifer continues, “so, we must operate in secret. We need space, and we need people, and we need funding. These are our starting priorities.”

Saburouta nods, understanding.

“I will take care of the bulk of the funding issue, so what I want from all of you right now is to find people who could be of use to us and to bring them into our fold. Again - I stress that you must do this in secret, and to evaluate anyone thoroughly before approaching them. Is that clear?”

They all nod. This is… exciting. Almost painfully so.

“Good. Dr. Eminesc is currently my highest consort and he sorts through the bulk of our current operations. He will be the contact for all of you until we create a base of operations and a more suitable candidate appears.”

“You three,” Lucifer says, addressing the three people Saburouta has never seen before in his life. “You’ll be looking for any property suitable to our needs - Dr. Eminesc and I will explain them to you in more detail once we come to a consensus. In the meantime - you will be looking for potential members on the streets, at work, in your social circles.” They nod in understanding.

“And you,” Lucifer says, turning to Saburouta, “You, like Dr Eminesc, will remain a link to True Cross and you will create files on anyone of interest for us. Both threats and people who would be willing to defect to us or spy for us.”

Saburouta nods eagerly. Oh, that- he hadn’t expected to remain in True Cross. But this still sounds good, sounds challenging, sounds like _fun_.

“Also,” Lucifer adds, “It would be good if you could set up barriers to conceal this location from True Cross. They must be looking for me already, and it takes a certain amount of effort on my side to stay hidden. I know you are proficient in such techniques.”

Saburouta jolts, surprised. Immediately, his eyes dart around the room, gauging the openings, the size, the fact that it’s the top floor and that people must still be able to come and go-

“I can,” he says, as he already begins to flesh out the basic schematics of the barriers he would need, “I’ll just need some supplies first. I can come by later today or tomorrow and set them up if you wish, sir.”

“Come at your earliest convenience,” Lucifer answers, with the shadow of a smile on his face - though his eyes remain serious and piercing, “the receptionist will let you in at any time.”

\--

Very little changes on the outside… but the inside is a whole different story.

After an adequate period of grief, Saburouta starts crawling out of his shell, slowly. Talks to people, even people outside his division. It’s small-talk, it’s little things, it’s how they feel and how they do. He needs to work up their trust. Needs to dig deeper.

That’s the mission, after all - to profile the members of True Cross. To write up their files - strengths, weaknesses, dreams and aspirations. To determine a way _in_.

He gets better with people. Things he never noticed become more clear the more he watches, the more he talks and asks and builds bridges. Saburouta’s good at making others feel safe around him, good at being unobtrusive and non-threatening.

He wears his old skin like a fine mask - it’s an easy and effective role to play. People let down their guard around him - neurotic, pathetic Saburouta. The man that deserves pity rather than disdain, the man that’s over forty and still stutters like some unsure kid, who frets about others and his own responsibilities and whose advice and tutelage you can’t help but question.

_But beneath all that…_

He feels like a predator, like a snake in the grass, like a tiger in waiting, like an angler fish. It’s absolutely exhilarating.

There’s just… ah, there’s just this charm to being something so much worse than what people imagine of you. It’s _fun_ to hide away his aptitude and strength and cunning. Fun to play with people like they’re puppets, like they’re pieces in a game of chess.

Fun to break people down. Apply pressure one way and they soften up, apply it a different way and they crumble, apply it in a third way and they’ll go to the depths of hell for you or perhaps hunt you down to the depths of hell. There’s so many ways that a person can break, and each is more fascinating than the last.

Saburouta smiles lazily as he leans back into the seat at his desk, in his office in The Keep. Everything just keeps getting _better_.

Of course, it’s hard to look away from what he used to be, from the fact that this mask and persona he’s wearing used to _be_ him. Ah, what a pathetic thing, his younger self. Eager to please and placate and prostrate himself in front of others - anything for an ounce of validation, for a second of feeling like he fit in.

His lip curls up in distaste as he thinks about it. How _stupid_. But he’s better now. More confident, more _himself_ than he has ever been.

\--

There’s an abandoned western-style mansion a two-hour ride outside of Tokyo, heading north. This is where they set up shop.

_The Illuminati_.

That’s the name they’ve decided upon. Saburouta likes it. There’s already mythos attached - all the conspiracy theories out in the world. But for them… it’s just fitting. He thinks back to the Lucifer he saw in his dreams - the winged ball of light. By that form - they truly are illuminated.

“Toudou, good to see you,” a member says as she opens the front doors to him.

“Likewise,” he says with a bright smile, “oh, this place is so fitting. It feels right.” He’s not lying, not really. The house feels… well, it reminds him of stuff from his past, to put it vaguely. But the colours and floors are wrong, and the scent in the air - unmistakably different from the spectres of his past.

“I know,” she says, gleeful, “come, I’ll show you to where we’re having the meeting!”

“Hm? Shouldn’t I start setting up?” he asks, flaunting his briefcase where he’s got all the paints, brushes and other paraphernalia necessary for securing and cloaking the building.

“Lucifer said - after the meeting. We’ll give you two people to help,” she says.

She opens a large double door, revealing a large room. There’s a long table, with Lucifer at the end and all the other inner members sat along the sides.

“Greetings, everyone,” Saburouta says with a polite little bow, “It’s wonderful to see you all here on this occasion.”

There’s a small chorus of greetings and well wishes.

“Sorry to pull you from your schedule like this,” Lucifer says, “I know that you are busy at work in True Cross.”

Saburouta laughs, the sound light but sharp, “That’s one way to put it. Do not worry, sir, all is well. I am quite delighted to get away for an evening and see the proceedings here.” His gaze veers to the side, where Emines- no, Dragulesc, now- sits.

“Dr. Dragulesc, how are you faring? Is there space yet for you to work freely?” Saburouta asks as he takes his seat.

The man’s frown is telling, “There is space to work, and I am grateful for that much, but… it still leaves much to be desired. Oh, well. I have patience - soon enough everything will align.”

“Surely,” Saburouta agrees amiably. He eyes the remaining seats, “How many more left to wait for?”

“Two more,” Lucifer answers, “They will join us soon.”

Saburouta hums, taking the time to inspect everyone around the table. Lucifer, Dragulesc, the three from the first time they all met…

Two more new faces. Well, better to say two more people he knows and corresponds with but hasn’t had the chance to meet face to face, so he’s not too sure who is who. And, two more to arrive…

That makes four additions to the inner circle in the past year that they’ve spent laying down the groundwork for their organisation. Saburouta knows there are more - the new members not yet trusted enough to know the inner workings.

About… twenty-five people altogether, if he remembers correctly from the reports he was mailed last month. They’ve grown exponentially. Finally, they can begin to really, truly _work_.

Not too long later, the aforementioned two arrive, and they start the meeting. It’s mostly about throwing out some ideas as to how to get where they want to go - how to grow, to spread, to ensure the facilities, equipment and specialists they need.

They have a plan to indoctrinate scientists to work with Dragulesc - Saburouta isn’t part of that because he lacks the background, but one of the new members is a member of staff in a medical university and has access to fresh new minds and talent. Pre-emptively, she’s started parsing through the kids for who would make a good addition to the ranks.

On another vein - one of the people from the first meeting - a lady named Alice is actively looking for more properties they could buy and convert for use - especially high on the list of facilities they need is a fully functioning laboratory so that they can re-start the research for the regeneration elixir and the clone-bodies at full capacity.

Saburouta’s also granted a moment to talk about his efforts at True Cross - he talks about his most favourable targets briefly - and about any and all dangerous members. Lucifer gives him the green-light for continuing work at his own discretion, which is not only surprising, but also… incredibly validating and heart-warming. A fuzzy feeling of pride takes him over at that - to think he’s found a place that he belongs in, to think that Lucifer himself puts that much trust into his work…

This is what it must feel like to sip ambrosia.

“Excuse me,” the lady who works at the university says, “but, Toudou-san, from what I’ve seen, you’ve mostly been building rapport with the senior members of True Cross. I was thinking - what if - quite similar to what I’m doing - you could target the fresher exorcists? Perhaps volunteer as an instructor, or engage more actively with training regimens - something like that. It could- It could work, I think.”

Saburouta taps the table thoughtfully. “I mean, you bring up a good point,” he says, “The green ones are a lot easier to work with for sure. Ahh, it would be a hassle to take on the extra workload, but… It would definitely be worth it in the long run...” he says, mind spinning - an instructor? A teacher? What would be a good place to lodge himself into? One that fits in well with his current persona and duties…

“Please, think about it, Toudou-san,” she says, smiling, eager and nice and what can Saburouta do but return her wide smile and thank her for her wonderful idea?

The meeting goes on for a while longer - new goals are set, the funds are distributed to where they are needed, and they discuss more about the kind of image they’re supposed to build for the organisation as they go; and how to deal with all the new members - training, talking, observation.

As they dismiss, two of the new faces are assigned to go with Saburouta to help set up barriers around the house and the property so that they can continue to work in hiding.

They work well into the night - the house and property are large and his two helpers, though not lacking in motivation or eagerness, are severely lacking in experience, so they need constant supervision, which slows him down some.

He can’t help but worry about Homare, as he always does when he’s away for a longer time. He picked her up from school before coming here and he knows that if she needs anything she can’t do herself that she can go and ask the neighbour (who Saburouta has been cultivating a mutual trust with for a while now and who has looked after Homare before while he was away on a mission).

“You two have kids?” he asks the helpers as they paint a barrier circle on one of the entirely too many outer walls of the house.

One says they don’t.

“I have a kid,” the other answers, “born just a few months ago. My partner and I are incredibly happy.”

“Oh!” Saburouta exclaims, “Congratulations! Ah, I remember that time… birth isn’t pretty, but… it still is rather beautiful, isn’t it? The first time I held my daughter in my arms… I felt like crying...”

They laugh, “I felt the same. I’m so glad to have a child with the love of my life. All in all… this has perhaps been the best year of my life.”

This brings up memories of Makoto, of the unfairness of her death. Of that beautiful time he spent with her. Just over twelve years. About a fourth of his life - and what a good one it was. If she hadn’t…

Well, he wouldn’t be _here_ and he wouldn’t be doing _this_.

“Well, here’s hoping it gets better!” Saburouta says as he activates the seal - it burns up bright, the paint bubbling up and absorbing into the wall as it joins the other barriers that cover the wall, forming an invisible outer layer.

“We need three more on the facade,” Saburouta says after a moment of thought and calculation, “let’s move to the next one.” He gathers his briefcase and the open bucket of paint before moving along.

They’ll still need to set up barriers around the perimeter of the property. There’s much left to do. They probably won’t finish until morning.

\--

Saburouta _frees up_ the position of Seals and Barriers teacher in the Exorcist Academy - well, they’ve re-named it to a cram school now, due to lack of students - just a handful of new ones every year.

He hides his tracks well. The previous teacher - the one who taught him as a child as well - just… goes missing. They never find the body, so they don’t even know that she’s dead. And Saburouta has more class than to just come in during a moment of grief and offer himself up as a candidate… no, he’s better than that.

He pretends to be grieving as well - he arrives at the funeral and cries, talks about how important her lessons were to him and how much he learned and how valuable it has been in the years since he graduated – that it set him up for easier learning of the family techniques - and how sad it is that she has passed - oh, woe, what will happen now? Who could ever fill her shoes? Surely not just any specialist would do-?

There’s plenty of ears to hear his bemoaning, so he hopes that the show he puts on will bear fruit.

And it does - the offer letter arrives to him a few weeks later after the other teacher body has discussed long and hard on suitable candidates. He is just one of three, but he has something the others don’t -

_A prestigious name_.

Of course they hire him. It is only logical. That last exorcist from the house of Toudou. What an ominous thing - but what a good position to be in.

There’s some scheduling issues to solve - at the wonderful age of forty-five he all but retires from field work as an exorcist – his services reserved only for the cases that would require his particular expertise. He also retains a deal of the office duties, but most of his energy from here on goes into teaching the newest generation of exorcists and his duties as Warden of The Deep Keep.

Honestly, it’s nice not having to run around endlessly like a dog anymore. Instead - he feels quite comfortable with his current position and the occasional training and sparring to keep his wits and body sharp. He can work from home more as well and thus can be there for Homare when she needs him.

Of course, he still keeps up his duties as a spy and recruiter for the Illuminati - builds bridges and webs and recruits people on the low and keeps tabs on anything that could endanger them.

Ah, what a wonderful life it is.

\--

There’s others like him - demon eaters, that is. Some discover it accidentally, others have been working to cultivate such a skill. Saburouta helps figure out a system for evaluating them.

They’re… very rare, and thus a lot more valuable than regular human recruits. They require a certain… delicate touch. Of course - Saburouta is an ideal choice. He acts as their mentor - teaches them everything that they don’t know about demons and possession and the bond between human and demon.

They cling to him like chicks cling to their mother. It feels good - they adore him and his control and wisdom and it only pulls them further and further into the Illuminati's grip. Further away from everyone else, a wedge separating them from society.

‘ _I don’t want to lose a single one_ ,’ Lucifer would say when he talked to Saburouta alone, ‘ _make them ours - your wicked tongue is more than capable of it. And if you fail - kill them like the others._ ’

And so, Saburouta works on them - the younger, inexperienced ones come easily, the older ones come hesitantly - but in the end they all come. That’s one thing Lucifer knows very well - Saburouta could seduce just about anyone to their cause with enough time and words.

“You won’t fit in anywhere else the way that you do here,” he coos to them time and time again, “the world won’t understand - they’ll hate you, force you to hide your talents to fit in. They want you to be normal or to not be at all. Do you want that? Or do you want to stay with us - us, who understand and value you. We’ll create a new world for us all- you’ll see, you’ll be happy there-”

And they eat his words right up. They believe that they have nothing else left for them.

And after these sessions, this moulding - he feels dirty and wretched. But he also feels satisfied.

For Lucifer, Saburouta would do this and so much worse _happily_.

\--

Saburouta has mellowed out since youth. He's not old, but he's undeniably old enough.

Many things have changed. A lot of things are still the same. He's not a better man than he was by any merit.

He's twisted and gnarled, through and through - and at peace with it. Rotten and mouldy. Infected, tainted. All those negative little words and more.

But it's funny… how little anyone has ever noticed. How little anyone has cared. Perhaps he's good at hiding it. But more likely is that no one's ever really cared to look. Not even when the signs were most obvious.

Saburouta thinks to the call he got yesterday, late in the night. It had taken him a moment to recognise the harried voice of Kubo, his old friend.

‘ _Toudou, there’s a mole in the Tokyo branch_ ,’ he had said, and Saburouta had stilled for just a moment, mind racing.

‘What mole?’

‘ _I uncovered a spy in my branch, he had files on so many exorcists. I don’t know what for, but it seems bad. Please, be careful, I’m worried that something might happen soon-_ ’ and Saburouta had immediately known what files Kubo found - why, he’s the one who writes the damn things and some careless whelp just lets them be _found_? Those were supposed to be delivered to base already. He sneers innerly.

‘Can you come here? I’ll help you state your case, Kubo. God, after the last few years we’ve had… do you think it’s someone planning to attack True Cross?’

‘ _I don’t know. It did seem like they could be a- a kill-list or- I don’t know, but they are scary detailed. Nothing like I’ve seen before._ ’

‘Come to Tokyo as soon as you can, Kubo. If they know that you found them you might be in danger - better safe than sorry.’

‘ _I’ll take the first train tomorrow. Thank you, Toudou._ ’

Saburouta had felt like trashing the apartment the second the call ended and reported the whole thing to the rest of the inner circle. Already, they’re looking over the new members much more closely so that this kind of thing doesn’t repeat.

But Saburouta has a mess to clean up now. The following morning finds him at the train station at five thirty in the morning - the bullet train Kubo is on is inbound. Two minutes until arrival. This needs to be covert and quiet. Nothing can get out. No one can _know_.

“Toudou!” Kubo calls out once he steps off the train. He strides over quickly, briefcase with the files in hand.

“Thank god you made it,” Saburouta says, seemingly relieved, “Now- come with me, please, we need to get somewhere we can talk.”

“Thank you for being available on such quick notice,” Kubo says, keeping up with Saburouta’s pace as they move through the morning crowd. “This whole thing’s got me so upset, good god. I just want to get this stuff clear so I can get back to work as normal...”

“I understand completely,” Saburouta says with sympathy, “ahh, I can’t even imagine what it’s like to find something so scary… don’t worry, we’ll figure it out together.”

“I knew I could trust you,” Kubo sighs with relief.

Saburouta tries to not laugh out loud.

\--

He ignores the silent accusations from the corner of the room.

Saburouta flips through the files, trying to gauge just how many Kubo had seen. And, well, it’s more than enough. He needs to _go_.

“I was going to try and turn this on you somehow,” Saburouta admits, “once I found out just how much you found. It could’ve been salvageable, you know. You could’ve walked away. You could’ve called anyone else from the Tokyo branch...”

Kubo stares at him with burning rage from where he’s trapped, immobile against the chair - held by invisible bonds.

“You could’ve, haha, you could’ve told your superiors where you were going, what you found, or even that you told me...” Saburouta pauses, licking his lips, “I mean - I’m honoured you trust me this much. It’s very touching, Kubo. That your first thought was to come straight to me...”

Kubo still says nothing. He knows it’s futile. He’s trapped, weaponless, defenceless. All the cards lie in Saburouta’s cruel hands.

“I’ll make sure your family is well off, at the very least,” Saburouta says gently, “but I’m sure you know what happens next.”

“I always knew you had a dark side, Toudou, after everything you said that time we first got drunk – the stuff about school and your family and…” he pauses, swallows, ”foolishly, perhaps – I hoped that you were stronger than it… “ he shakes his head, his expression rueful. ”How’s about one last drink for old time’s sake, you double faced snake?” Kubo asks lowly, his voice tainted with restrained anger.

“Tempting as that is, I have places to be,” Saburouta answers sheepishly, “we can meet and drink in our next lives again.”

“You won’t have a next life,” Kubo says, self-assured, “your soul will be destroyed when you die. It is only right.”

Saburouta laughs, light-hearted, “Oh, who cares about what’s right anymore? But - we’ll see, I suppose.” He flicks his knife, bearing the blade. “Sit still, please. It’ll be over in a second.”

\--

Soon enough, Homare has finished elementary school and started middle school. She’s growing and changing at an alarming speed. No longer daddy’s little girl - she’s a growing teen with many thoughts on her mind.

She’s as studious as ever, but outside of school, she still itches for a taste of trouble. But Saburouta doesn’t want to be an overbearing parent - he wants to do right by her. He never raises his voice or his hand. Every issue they ever have - it can be solved by communication, not by fear.

Homare, though occasionally rebellious in her own, strange way, is a good kid. Never leaves him worried for too long - and lets him know if she goes out with her friends somewhere. Sometimes she even has friends over for sleepovers and- and just plain hanging out.

It leaves him feeling a little awkward, but he makes do with getting out of their way and just… being available if they should need him. It’s an odd side of parenthood - stepping back so that your child can explore the world. But never too far, just in case something happens… A delicate balance.

Saburouta wishes that he’d had that when he was young. Instead - the memories are dark and scary. Of being forced to comply with ultimatum after ultimatum - of the constant yelling - of the violence. He’s set on making sure Homare doesn’t live like that. She needs to grow up loved and feeling _safe_.

\--

The Illuminati keeps growing. They have a main laboratory and a back-up one, as well as a back-up base in Southern Japan. Their numbers now somewhere in triple digits and growing - ever growing.

There’s restructuring - they establish a true chain of command. Saburouta’s still highly ranked, but he doesn’t need to worry about as many organisational tasks anymore - there’s a separate division for it.

His pride for what he’s doing swells - the conviction growing stronger. He’s chosen the right path for himself. Nowhere else would he fit in like this. Nowhere else would he be welcomed like this.

Saburouta has given his soul up to the Illuminati. But that’s fine, it’s not like he needs it anymore.

\--

Saburouta looks on as his hellhounds rip a target to shreds. There's screaming, oh, such horrible screaming.

They’ve been killing a lot recently - it’s all in an attempt to clean up some awkward messes. Though their concepts were good, they’ve come to realise they need even stricter rules of admission. The new members of the Illuminati… they just don’t _get it_ , most of the time. They act as if it’s a joke and say something they shouldn’t-

And then trouble happens. So they’re watching them ever-closer. Trailing their every move as much as they can, to make sure that the fit is right, that they won’t turn or talk or- whatever. The kind of loyalty the Illuminati is looking for is a mindless, unquestioning, unwavering thing. Not just anyone can make the cut.

And Saburouta isn’t afraid to break a few eggs to make an omelette.

He rather likes it, in fact. It’s an acquired taste - the squelch and snap and crunch. The low growl and the high snarl. The grace of arterial spray, the ever-growing puddle of red that flows out like a sea while the victim - oh, the victim _screams_.

Saburouta delights in the bloodworks!

The man spouts something garbled, sounds sort of like Saburouta's name, sort of like ‘ _Wasn’t I good enough? Didn’t I do my best?_ ’. Saburouta doesn’t really care what he’s saying - he’s got his orders to _eliminate_.

The screaming stops, and with a detached fascination Saburouta watches as his familiar rips the man’s throat out bite by bite. He takes a notebook from his coat pocket and strikes a name out. That’s it for today. Two more tomorrow.

Saburouta smiles wider. He'll go home after this, and lie easy in his bed. No grief, no guilt. He hasn't had either of those in a very long time. Doesn't remember what they taste like.

The next day he'll go to work, greet everyone with a kind smile and soft words. And when his shift ends, he’ll hunt down the next pathetic whelp in need of culling. That’s him now. This kind of man, who can so easily stomach lying and brutish violence, and most people haven’t the slightest idea.

\--

About a year after Kubo’s disappearance, Saburouta is invited to the funeral. He’d all but forgotten about the whole thing, honestly. After he’d helped arrange support to Kubo’s family, he’d put it all behind him. Kubo’s wife finally must’ve given up hope that Kubo would come back.

He’s missed the wake, but he arrives at the funeral to see her pale, tired face. Dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

Saburouta hugs her like he cares, like he’s sorry for her loss.

“I kept thinking and hoping,” she mumbles shakily into his shoulder, “Every night I’d wake up from some noise, I’d think - it’s him. And it never was. I don’t know how to go on, Toudou-san. There’s a hole in my heart.”

“I know how you feel,” he says back, soothing, “it’s incredibly painful to lose your other half. I do not know what happened to take him away from you, but you will only start to heal when you forget how his hands felt in yours.”

She cries anew at his words, slumping like a dead weight in his arms as she grieves. He lets her stain his coat as he watches the grave blankly.

Another part of his past - gone and confirmed dead, like a shed skin. Over twenty years of friendship – snipped away like an unwanted growth over some files that found the wrong hands. Kubo’s name stares back at him, engraved pitch black into the stone, and Saburouta? Why, he – doesn’t feel bad or sad or anything else. He really must be a snake.

\--

“You seem troubled,” Saburouta says in a gentle tone as he sits down next to one of his younger colleagues in the cafeteria.

Alexei half-laughs, “Yeah, I-” he catches himself, “I have a lot on my mind.” His accent has gotten a lot better during his stay here. It’s still thick, but a lot more legible.

"Ah, the mind is such a dangerous thing. Would you join me today after work for a drink – to try and distract yourself for a bit?" Saburouta finds himself asking, "I know a great izakaya not too far from here."

Alexei looks at him with wet eyes for a moment, and then says in a wobbly voice, "I would like to. Thank you, Saburouta-san."

"Of course, Lyosha. It's still my duty as your senior to take care of you," Saburouta says with a soft laugh.

He pats Alexei on the shoulder warmly.

They meet up near the South Gate after work. It’s already dark out. The October air has a certain chilliness to it. Saburouta has a scarf and coat on - a tan trench coat, not the exorcist’s overcoat. He doesn’t really need it, just likes the aesthetic of it. Autumn is his favourite season. It’s the sweater weather that does it for him.

Alexei, on the other hand, only has a thin looking vest, worn over a t-shirt. They head off down the street.

“Aren’t you cold, Lyosha?” Saburouta asks after a moment, with a raised brow. He feels a bit chilly just looking at the man.

“No, it’s perfect. Home was much colder. This here,” he gestures vaguely, ”is summer weather in Arkhangelsk,” Alexei says with a weak laugh.

“Oh?” Saburouta asks, surprised, “I didn’t know your hometown. What’s the winter weather like there?”

“Colder than Japan, but not as cold as the continental or the deep northern Russia weather,” Alexei pauses, thinking, “usually winter is in the minus ten to minus twenty zone. But the snow there is most of the year.” His face takes on a wistful expression, “I remember going sledding with my brothers in June when we were kids... It was far from ideal though,” he chuckles.

Saburouta laughs, “Oh, I couldn’t imagine that! The world is such a big place.” He also means that he can’t imagine going sledding with his brothers as a kid. They’d probably use him as the sled. “It sounds like an interesting place to grow up in.”

Alexei chuckles, “Yeah, it definitely was. I can’t even tell you all the trouble I used to get into as a teen, seeing as you’re my senior and all. You’d change your mind about me immediately.”

“Oh, it can’t be that bad,” Saburouta says, “you should hear about all the stupid things I did!”

Alexei looks at him, surprised, “You? Getting into trouble? Saburouta-san, I can’t imagine it! You’re so-” he gestures at Saburouta wildly “-ah, what’s the word? You do everything as you should?”

“Um,” Saburouta thinks, “Right? Proper?”

“Proper! Yes! I can’t imagine you getting into trouble,” Alexei adds with a laugh.

“You see, Lyosha,” Saburouta smiles mischievously, leaning in closer, “When I got up to trouble, I just never got caught!” Alexei has no idea how much weight this statement carries. There are two separate and wildly differing definitions of ‘trouble’ at work here.

Alexei’s eyes light up with glee as he gasps, then throws his head back in a full-body laugh, that Saburouta joins in on, a bit more reserved. Eventually, Alexei calms down some and claps Saburouta on the back, wiping a joyful tear from his eye with the other hand, “Oh, Saburouta-san, you old hooligan! Now I’m curious!”

In a bold move, Saburouta puts his arm around Alexei’s shoulders. With that same mischievous smile, he conspirationally sing-songs, “If you keep your secrets, I keep mine~”

Alexei laughs again, in good fun. Then the izakaya comes into view. Saburouta ushers the other man in.

“Oh, Toudou-san! You’ve brought a friend?” the lady behind the counter asks.

“Yes, this is my junior, Alexei! I’m treating him tonight,” Saburouta answers back pleasantly.

Alexei seems to startle at that, even if he bows to the lady politely. “You’re treating me? But I thought-”

“Don’t be like that, kid,” the lady says with a smile. She’s got crow’s feet and smile wrinkles. A pleasant but weathered face. “I say milk this old goat here for all he’s worth!”

“Yes, yes, listen to her - of course I’m treating you! What kind of senior do you take me for?” Saburouta asks, pretend-offended. “Come on now, sit down, Lyosha!” he urges, leading Alexei over to a table in the corner.

Alexei complies, but he’s looking a bit flustered. He’s not quite used to local customs and attitudes yet, but he’s trying his best.

“Do you know what you’d like?” Saburouta asks, sliding the little laminated menu over. He doesn’t need to look at it. He knows it by heart.

Alexei looks over the items, before looking at Saburouta at a loss, “Can I trust you to pick something for me? You probably know what’s good around here.”

“Everything’s good,” Saburouta answers with a wide smile, “but sure, I’ll pick something for you. Will you be drinking sake as well?”

“Oh, yes please,” Alexei says emphatically.

“Then I’ll be right back,” Saburouta says, hanging his coat over the back of the chair and making his way back to the counter.

“What’ll it be, Toudou-san?” the lady asks, polishing a glass.

“We’ll have two servings of zaru soba, some pickled eggplant, some tuna sashimi, and two bottles of Akashi-Tai honjozo to start us off,” he lists off with a smile.

“Say, Toudou-san...” the lady says lowly, before looking around carefully, “my husband recently got a crate of Daishichi Minowamon junmai daiginjo,” Saburouta feels his face go slack with surprise, ”And he doesn’t want to advertise it too much, but a trusted and beloved regular such as yourself… I think you’d be able to really appreciate it.”

“Oh, Ikeda-san, I would be honoured,” he says, almost out of breath at the very idea. A drink like that is hard to come to, and impossible to pass up.

“So I’ll give you one bottle of the Akashi-Tai and one of the Daishichi Minowamon?”

“Yes, that would be lovely! Thank you, Ikeda-san.”

“Now, go back to your junior, he looks so lonely by himself! We’re not so busy right now, so I’ll bring your food and drinks over! Shoo!”

With a slight bow and a wide smile, Saburouta thanks her again, before making his way back to Alexei.

“You look very happy,” the young man notes as Saburouta sits down across him.

“Ah, yes- well, I received a pleasant surprise,” Saburouta explains, “Ikeda-san offered us a very nice drink.”

“Oh?” Alexei asks, intrigued. “You know a lot about drinks?”

“I know a lot about Japanese drinks,” Saburouta says, “I like to try the ji-zake whenever I’m sent for a mission outside of Tokyo. I’ve tried many, but the variety is never ending. It’s always a thrill to try something new.”

“Oh, could you teach me sometime? I’d love to learn some more,” Alexei says, smiling.

“I can teach you some now,” Saburouta says. He explains the concepts briefly - the importance of the ingredients, the level of polishing for the rice, the additives, the local specifics - which region brews the sweetest and which the driest ji-zake. The classification system. Alexei listens attentively, occasionally asking a question or two.

“You know,” Saburouta says, in a truly terrific mood, “I could take you with me to try them sometime. We could do a regional trip.”

“Oh, that would be nice,” Alexei says, but then a dark shadow passes over his face, “I’m not sure when that could be though.”

“Oh, we’ll figure it out, Lyosha,” Saburouta says.

Then Ikeda brings over a tray with their food and drink. “Enjoy, you two!” she says and turns to head back to the counter.

Saburouta reaches out to grab the bottle, but Alexei stops him, “I’ll pour! It’s only respectful.”

“Oh,” Saburouta pauses, “alright then.” He notes Alexei looking between the bottles, unsure which to pick, “Let’s drink the Akashi-Tai first, Lyosha.”

Alexei picks nods and picks up the bottle, pours them both a shot. Hands Saburouta his respectfully.

“Alright then,” Saburouta says, hearty, “cheers!”

“Oh, this is a lot nicer than what other sake I’ve tried,” Alexei notes, smacks his lips, “Is that citrus?”

“Yes,” Saburouta answers. He can’t help but preen a little, “it might be a little higher-shelf than what you’re used to. My philosophy is that it’s better to drink a little bit of something good and enjoy it, rather than a lot of something not-so-good and get drunk off of it.”

Alexei nods in agreement, “That’s a philosophy I can get behind,” then, he eyes Saburouta a little warily, “but how high a shelf are we talking here? I don’t want you to spend so much on me.”

Saburouta waves the worry off, “Don’t think about that. Just enjoy the drink and food, alright? I’m not overspending or anything.”

Alexei looks at him a little longer before sighing, defeated, “I’ll take your word for it, Saburouta-san.”

Saburouta’s smile turns a little smug, “Good. Now, let’s eat, shall we?”

The food is delicious, as usual. They chat amiably between bites and sips. Once the Akashi-Tai runs out, Saburouta goes to order some more food. They uncork the Daishichi Minowamon when it arrives. Alexei pours it into the slightly larger, clean glasses.

“Ah, this is truly a junmai daiginjo to enjoy,” Saburouta says, taking his glass and swirling it gently, savouring the smell. Alexei does the same.

“Whoa,” Alexei says under his breath.

“I know, right?” Saburouta says, looking over at him proudly. Oh, it’s always a joy to have someone who respects drinks. He hasn’t had anyone he knows well to drink with since Kubo died. Saburouta likes the local crowds, and there are some that savour the alcohol like he does, but there’s something about having… a colleague, a junior who gets it that’s just unimaginably lovely.

That first sip is divine. Clean and precise. Delicate and mellow. So smooth down his throat - it’s like drinking water from a spring. Saburouta closes his eyes and half-hums-half-moans contently. Takes another, smaller sip, lets it linger on his palate.

“It’s better than I imagined,” he says in a low voice. Cracks open an eye to see Alexei leaned back in his chair, with a serene smile, eyes closed.

“Saburouta-san,” he says, opening his eyes to look at the man, ”I think you’ve ruined me for regular old sake. I don’t know if I’ll be able to drink it again after this.”

Saburouta laughs, melodic. “Well then, I’ll have to take responsibility and take you out for drinks more often, I suppose.”

Alexei grins, “Indeed.”

Saburouta deems that the younger man is sufficiently relaxed and disinhibited to start on a line of questioning. “Lyosha...” he says, and Alexei meets his gaze with a soft, questioning hum, “forgive me asking, but as a senior, I couldn’t help but notice that the lot of you seemed rather upset at lunch today. Is someone giving you trouble?”

Alexei turns at once sombre, “It’s not… exactly like that.” He’s avoiding Saburouta’s gaze. There’s something more at play.

“Do you miss home?” he pushes, “I understand how a whole new country can be hard to get used to.”

“I miss Arkhangelsk, but… that’s not quite it, either…” Alexei says. His cheeks are rosy from alcohol, but the look in his eyes is haunted and empty. “The work is different from what I hoped and expected, and I’m not sure if I have what it takes to-” he stops himself. The hand not holding the sake is clenched in a bloodless fist.

“Lyosha,” Saburouta says, voice gentle but firm, “look at me.” The man meets his gaze reluctantly. Saburouta’s been working on him for the better part of half a year - building trust and doubt in the methods of True Cross. Finally, Alexei is fumbling as he hoped the man would. Growing soft to Saburouta’s sculpting.

“Are you having second thoughts about being an exorcist?” he says. Alexei bites his lip, his expression turning distressed… but stays quiet. He looks at Saburouta pleadingly, mute. A lost little lamb in all but body.

Saburouta looks around the izakaya. There’s not a lot of people. He reaches for the mostly-full bottle, and pours a bit of sake in the shot glass he used earlier for the Akashi-Tai, then places the bottle down with a gentle click. Then he bites the thumb of his left hand with his just-sharper-than-normal canines. Dribbles blood into the sake, swirls it together.

Draws a protective seal on the table with it. The lines shimmer as it activates. All the other noises seem to muffle, merge together into a soft backdrop.

“Will you feel more comfortable speaking now? No one else will hear,” Saburouta says, “Anything at all- you can trust me. I won’t judge you and I won’t tell anyone, alright?”

“Sorry, it’s just,” Alexei says, barely above a breath. His hand goes to his neck, loosening the collar of his shirt. “It’s so hard. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. The Order… ah, they try their best, but their mistakes and flaws are glaring...”

“I know how you feel,” Saburouta murmurs, “I’ve been with the order for most of my life. I’ve seen… so much. They try their best, but they are far from perfect. Some exorcists even – sometimes they seem worse than the demons…” he chuckles defeatedly.

Alexei nods sadly. He looks so small for a man of his stature… he’s half a head taller than Saburouta, but now… now he really looks like a child.

“Well, I’m always here if you need to get away from it all for a moment,” Saburouta says, reaching for a napkin, “Or if you just need someone who will listen. I say that as both your senior and your friend.”

“Thank you,” Alexei says tightly, “For- everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Saburouta-san.”

“Any time, Lyosha,” Saburouta says with a gentle little smile. Close now- so very close. Once he gets the green light from Lucifer – and he knows that he will-, he’ll start converting Alexei. His skills would indeed be very useful to the Illuminati, as long as he buys into the doctrine.

If he doesn’t, then… well, his hellhounds are always hungry.

Saburouta wipes the seal off, and sound comes rushing in. Traffic, people talking, a dog barking in the distance. Saburouta downs the blood-sake mixture with a quick gulp. The saltiness compliments the pure flavour of the alcohol strangely pleasantly.

They drink the rest of the bottle in silence.

\--

Homare slips into his footsteps seamlessly, almost without Saburouta noticing. Before he knows it, she’s sixteen and stubbornly insisting that he let her join the Illuminati.

It’s… unexpected, to say the least, especially when Saburouta thinks back to how she sneers at the idea of becoming an exorcist. He wasn’t even aware that she knew about the Illuminati - why, he thought that he’d been covering his tracks very well. But it just goes to show that she’s clever and resourceful.

Lucifer… is beyond delighted at her spirit, and welcomes her with open arms. Soon enough Homare is going to training after school - learning to fight, to manipulate, to _lead_. Meeting all the other Illuminati members and carving a place for herself among them.

“Your daughter is as promising as you were,” one of the senior members of the Illuminati says as he stands next to Saburouta, watching Homare spar and flip a man twice her size onto his back seemingly without effort.

“No,” Saburouta says, a warm feeling of pride burning in his chest, “she’ll be so much better than me.”

\--

A time comes when the Illuminati know what they want and what they need. The plan is fleshed out, and though it will take years until they get it right, everyone is more than willing to work patiently and diligently towards it.

Saburouta has his work cut out for him. He stares down at the list of the first-years of the exorcist cram school. There are many names, but he is only interested in two of them - Shima Juuzou and Houjou Mamushi. One of them will lead him to the phoenix Karura.

And then… oh, then some truly _great things_ will happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go. I hope the last chapter wasn't terribly anticlimatic shduhshsuh
> 
> Just wanted to give him more time being bastard... :,) Thanks for sticking through this monster of a fic haha.
> 
> & if u ever might need to find me on other social media - i'm on twitter as @robopattern and on tumblr as @thefoulbeast


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